It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined against the azure.
Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance.

Then drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast presented an excellent mark.
The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air--struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch it.
It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.
Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was all stained with blood.
"Oh, what large eyes you have!" he said, smiling; "you're a handsome pigeon.

I will not kill you.

I will take you home and cure your wing, and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my pretty bird." Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.
Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his eye.
"Paper! and writing on it!" he said; "why, this is somebody's pet-pigeon I have shot!" And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a delicate, running-hand: "_I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her_!" Verty remained for a moment motionless--his eyes expanded till they resembled two rising moons;--"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon!" Then Redbud was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town--she had not gone far out into the wide, unknown world--this pigeon might direct him;--Verty found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.
Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance of discovering Redbud's residence--a chance which seemed to have been afforded him by some unseen power.

Why should he not keep the bird until its wing was healed, and then observe the direction of its flight?
Why not thus find the abode of one in whose society so much of his happiness consisted?
Was there any thing wrong in it--would any one blame him?
These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing in the October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his breast.