There was Harriet, for example, dear, serious, practical Harriet.

I used to be fretted by the way she was forever trying to clip my wing feathers--I suppose to keep me close to the quiet and friendly and unadventurous roost! We come by such a long, long road, sometimes, to the acceptance of our nearest friends for exactly what they are.

Because we are so fond of them we try to make them over to suit some curious ideal of perfection of our own--until one day we suddenly laugh aloud at our own absurdity (knowing that they are probably trying as hard to reconstruct us as we are to reconstruct them) and thereafter we try no more to change them, we just love 'em and enjoy 'em! Some such psychological process went on in my consciousness that morning.

As I walked briskly through the streets I began to look out more broadly around me.

It was really a perfect spring morning, the air crisp, fresh, and sunny, and the streets full of life and activity.