IN THE March number of the Cosmopolitan of 1894, I read a most interesting article about a tame humming-bird. I know a number of people who enjoyed it as much as I, so I feel sure all lovers of pets, especially of birds, will be interested in my story of "Little Billee." I have always been passionately fond of animals and would like to make pets of them all. I have cared the least for birds, (except out of doors) and have known very little about them.

I have been ill many months, and my family and friends have done all they could to make the days pass as quickly as possible for me. Early in June my mother found a little brown bird which could not have been more than two weeks old. Thinking it might amuse me she brought him up stairs done up in her handkerchief, and I took him inside the bed. After an hour he seemed very happy and not at all afraid. I looked him over carefully, but found him uninjured. I took him to the open window expecting to see him try to fly away, but he did not seem to have the slightest intention of doing so. From that day to this he has been perfectly devoted to me and my constant companion. At this minute he is sitting on the back of my neck dressing his feathers.

The first day I could not get him to eat anything until night, when he drank milk from an after-dinner coffee spoon. After that he took little pieces of bread soaked in milk from my tongue or lip. I fed him in that way for several days, then he would take it out of my fingers. He lived on bread and milk for two weeks. Now he eats almost everything that I do. All kinds of vegetables, mushrooms, and ice cream. He likes to sit on my hand or shoulder and take them from my fork.

I have some kind of nourishment every two hours and Little Billee knows very well when my maid comes into my room with a salver that there is something on it to eat or drink, and he is wild until he gets on my hand or shoulder. He drinks milk from my tumblers and will not drink water out of anything but my medicine glass. When Little Billee sees me sit down in the morning with an orange on a plate, he flies upon his cage, then over into my lap, and sits on the first finger of my left hand and eats the orange from my spoon. At first he could not crack his own seeds and as he was very fond of them I used to do it for him. Now he can crack them himself, but he prefers eating them outside his cage, and his hemp seed he always brings over and eats on the rug in front of my bed.

Little Billee is very fond of little orange blossom biscuits. I keep some in a tin box under a table by the side of my bed. For several days every time I would reach out of bed and tap on the box Little Billee would come running for a piece. One day I was visiting with a friend and we forgot all about the bird. Soon we heard rap, tap, tap, pop, pop, pop, and there was Little Billee standing by the box waiting for a piece. Since then he comes many times a day. If I send him away with a small piece he returns directly for a large one.

I had quite a time teaching him to stay in his cage. The first day I put him in I was afraid he would die of fright. I left the cage on the floor for two days before he ventured in. After he had been going in and out for some time, I closed the door, but he was frightened quite as much as at first, and he would not go near the cage the rest of the day. Finally I tried taking the cage on my lap and shutting him in; he did not seem afraid then and now he does not mind being shut up in the morning when I am in my dressing-room, but he much prefers going in and out at his own sweet will. If I leave him shut up in his cage and go back to bed, he is frantic until he is let out and gets in the bed with me. For the first two weeks he was not happy if he was not on me somewhere. He would stay in bed with me for hours at a time, but now he plays on the floor, with a little piece of paper, cotton, or ribbon, and eats his seeds and biscuit.

I dress my hair high and it is Little Billee's special delight to sit on the top of my twist while I walk about my room. During the first few weeks if I put him on the floor when he had been in bed with me, he would hop back and forth on the rug in front of my bed, and beg to be taken, or he would fly straight up. I would put down my hand, he would hop upon my finger and in a second be back inside the bed. If I was sitting in a chair and put him down on the floor, he would climb right up from my feet to my neck, put his little bill in my mouth and chirp with glee. One day he was on the floor and did not see me go back to bed, but saw my wrapper over a chair (which stood about a yard from my bed). He supposed I was inside of it, but when he reached the top and found no mouth to put his bill into, he gave several very mournful peeps, but as soon as I spoke to him he chirped and it did not take him long to fly over to me. The next day when I put him down on the floor I was anxious to see what he would do. After teasing for some time for me to take him, he went to a chair, climbed up on the wrapper until he reached the top, then flew over to me. Ever after he came that way when I refused to take him.

One day I left Little Billee on the rug in front of the bed and went into my dressing room. While I was gone my mother came in and sat down. He was much frightened. Every time she spoke to him he ran under the bed, stuck his little head out from under the valance and peeped for me to come to him. When I spoke he answered, but was too much afraid to pass mother to come to me. When I came out he ran quickly to me and flew onto the back of a very low chair. I bent down and he flew up on my shoulder, chirping as loud as he could. No little child could have shown more joy in getting back to its mother. I do not suppose he remembers any other mother, and thinks all little birds have just such good mothers as I.

I have a magnificent big tiger cat named Taffy, so I thought Little Billee would be a very good name for my wee bird. It seems a very appropriate name too, as he spends a great deal of his time dressing himself and manicuring his nails. When he struts about with his head held high you can plainly see the long coat, high collar, high hat, and umbrella and can easily imagine the original Little Billee is before you. But I fear Taffy and my Little Billee will never go walking arm and arm together. Taffy has already caught Little Billee twice, but I have rescued him from the jaws of death before any harm was done. I am trying my best to get them to live contentedly together. I do not allow Little Billee to go out into the hall for fear he will fly down stairs and be caught by Taffy before anyone can reach him. Before the door into the hall is a small rug and he thinks flying over that a great feat, but when I say, "Little Billee, come right home," he returns instantly.

He goes to bed at eight o'clock in a little basket which I put on the top of some hanging shelves so there will be no danger from Taffy in the dark. Taffy sleeps on my bed every night, and very often on the outside when Little Billee is inside, and it seems like the lion and the lamb lying down together. Little Billee will usually be contented in his basket until 7 o'clock in the morning, then I take him into the bed with me where he lies quietly on my arm, neck, or palm until I get up at 9 o'clock. He never makes a peep unless I speak to him, then he chirps away like a happy child. On fine evenings I sat before an open window from 7 o'clock until 8 with Little Billee on my finger listening to the birds. When he became sleepy he tucked his little head under his wing, in a few minutes crawled into the palm of my hand and went sound asleep, ready for his basket.

When the hot wave came I went down-stairs at 7 o'clock, shutting him up in his cage.

The second night I had hard work to catch him. He ran into the hall and would not come when I called to him. The third night, when he saw me making preparations to dress, he acted like mad. He hopped all around me, put out his tiny wings, and tried to fly onto me, opened his bill, but not a sound came out. As I stood in front of my dressing table he flew to the top of his cage (which stood on the floor) to the back of a chair (which was near me), then up to my shoulder, chirping away so merrily that I knew he was saying: "Please take me with you." Of course, after that it is needless to say I took him down-stairs, and he has gone down every night since, where he remains until 8 o'clock, then is put into his basket, and I hear no more from him until morning.

On pleasant mornings I sit on the piazza and Little Billee sits on my hand or plays in my lap. When I walk on the sidewalk Little Billee goes, too, and never offers to fly away, and if the wind blows he holds on tight. Sometimes he sings and always seems interested in all that is going on about him.

Twice Little Billee has flown out of my window from fright. Once he was on my shoulder when a very small girl with a very large hat came up to him and away he flew. The next time a large bunch of ferns was brought to me. I thought he would like it and think it was a nice little tree, but I am all the tree he seems to care for. He was so frightened he flew onto a chair, and as I held up a fern out of the window he went. Both times when my maid went to look for him she could not find him until she peeped, then he answered, and she found him sitting in the grass waiting to be picked up, and he was delighted to get back to me.

Little Billee has never gone to any one except my physician, and that was when I had had him about a week. He went to him, hopped all over his shoulder, picked at his collar and tie and was very friendly. Now he will not go to even him, and I feel sure I am Trilby and his only love. Perhaps the children who read this will think Little Billee is a little angel bird and too good to live, but I will say right here he is too bad to die. Like all bright children sometimes he is very naughty. For instance, when I want to lie quietly on my bed in the day time and Little Billee does not, he will play for some time running up on the top of my pillow, then down again, hop on my arm, then under the sheet until he finds my hand; back he goes and does the same thing over again. When he gets tired of that he will sit on my chin and be very loving, kiss me in the mouth, and chirp away. When he finds I am not going to open my eyes or speak to him he will peck and bite my eyes, nose, ears, cheeks, and lips, and I assure you they are not love bites either. Then again, when he wants to sit on my shoulder and I prefer he should sit on my hand, he will fly up every time I take him down, and bite hard at my hand, and for such a little bird he has a very big bite and a very fierce look.

He loves to visit my mother in her room, and is very happy walking all over her and on her head, but she has never yet been able to touch him. He seems to have eyes all over his head, for, no matter how careful she is, he always sees the finger. He thoroughly enjoys my squeezing him in my hand, and kissing him over and over again.

No doubt long ere this my readers have been wondering what kind of a bird Little Billee is, but that is a question which has not yet been answered. But I love Little Billee so dearly that it makes little difference to me what his nationality is or whether his ancestors came over in the Mayflower, fought in the American revolution, or whether, like Topsy, he "just growed." It was amusing to see Little Billee the first time he heard the piano. One morning two friends came to see me, and while one of them played I lay on the sofa with Little Billee cuddled up in my neck. At first he was very much afraid and did not know what to make of the music. Soon he became charmed (as everyone does who hears exquisite playing) and craned his little neck way out, opened his bill, as if he were drinking in the sound, then reached around, kissed me in the mouth, snuggled down again, for a few minutes, and repeated it as long as she played.

One morning I saw Little Billee lying on the floor before an open window with his neck stretched out and bill wide opened. I thought he was dying, picked him up, but found him as lively as ever. When he did the same thing over again I understood he was taking a sun bath, and now he takes one every morning. One morning it was quite cold when we came in from our walk, and I sat down in front of the fire with Little Billee on my knee. It was amusing to see him put his head on one side, open his bill and drink in the warm air. For six weeks he strongly objected to taking a water bath, and I really suppose he was too young and knew best. I left a little dish for several days on the floor by the side of his cage, but he was very careful not to go near it. One morning everything was very quiet, I on my bed and Little Billee playing about the room. Soon he went to the dish, looked in all four corners, came back to the first one, put his bill in just a little way, then went the rounds; did it all over again, putting his bill in a little further, and shaking off the water. After debating a long time he got on the edge of the dish, put his head in until it was all wet, then screwed up all his courage and in he went. Such a droll little figure as he cut, standing there with his body and head held as high as he could get them, his wings out just a little, not knowing what to do next. All I could think of was a very timid child going in wading for the first time, with long thin legs, very short frock, and arms akimbo. His fear soon left him, and he was bathing like an old stager. When he finished he got out, gave himself two or three good shakes, then came over to the bed, and asked me to take him. I did him up in my handkerchief, but that did not suit him at all. I could not do anything with him, until I let him get on my bare neck, and covered him with the trimming of my robe de nuit. He was soaking wet and shivering like a person having a hard chill. He kept very still until his feathers were dry enough to be dressed. Such shaking, dressing of feathers, and prinking I never saw. When his toilet was made to suit him he nestled down under my chin, and we both slept for an hour. Every day we go through the same performance after the bath. One day I wanted to do something in my dressing-room, so thought Little Billee could take his bath and dry himself. Soon I began to hear very mournful peeps, and I came out to find Little Billee, soaking wet, standing in front of my bed, thinking I was there and teasing for me to take him. Of course I could not resist such pleading, so to bed we went. I know I am completely spoiling him, but he is such a dear no one could help it.

Little Billee has taken a great interest in this tale, and when I write is always on my shoulder, arm or hand. His favorite place to sit is on my left hand between my first finger and thumb, as they hold my portfolio on my lap, and peck at my paper and pen. One day he took the pen full of ink into his bill then threw the ink all over my paper. Little Billee has great fun taking the paper off from the bottom of his cage, and carrying it all about the room, and will take it out as fast as I put it in. The other day he went into his cage, took the furthest corner of the paper in his bill, backed out bringing the paper over his head until it was all on the floor, then went over to the opposite corner, took that in his bill, backed off the paper until he came to the end, then went around in a circle like the wind, for perhaps a dozen times, with the paper perfectly straight out just like a sail. After a few moments I put the paper back, he took it right out in the same way and did it all over again.

A number of weeks have passed since I began Little Billee's biography. He grows more wonderful every day, and his devotion to me is simply marvelous. Every day he does some new cunning thing and seems to understand everything I say to him.

The other day he would not come to me when I put down my hand, but ran across the room. After trying for some time to make him mind, I got up and said, "Billee, I am going away and leave you," and started out into the hall. He came chasing after me, and now will always do it when I tell him I am going to leave him. If I go out of my room and tell him he cannot go, he will sit on a chair by an open window or play about on the floor for an hour at a time, and never think of flying out of the window or going out of the door.

(Continued on page 48.)