HE ARRIVED that year very early in the season. It was about the twelfth of February that I first heard his plaintive note far up in the maple tree. Could it be Mr. Bluebird, I questioned as I hastened to the window opera-glass in hand? Yes, there he stood, not too comfortably dressed I am afraid, in his blue cap, sky-blue overcoat and russet-brown vest edged with a trimming of feathers soft and white.

There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, and I fancied, from his pensive note, that he was chiding himself for leaving the Mississippi Valley, to which he had journeyed at the first touch of wintry weather in Illinois.

"If it wasn't for the snowdrops, the crocus, the violets, and daffodils," he was saying in a faint sweet warble, "I'd linger longer in the South than I do. They, dear little things, never know, down in their frozen beds, that winter will soon give place to spring till they hear my voice, and so, no matter how bleak the winds or how gray the sky, I sing to let them know I have arrived, my presence heralding the birth of spring and death of winter. It well repays me, I am sure, when, in March under the warm kisses of the sun their pretty heads appear above the ground, and, smiling back at him, out they spring dressed in their new mantles of purple and yellow."

At this moment from the topmost branch of an adjoining maple came a low, sweet, tremulous note very much indeed like a sigh.

"Ah," said he, surveying the new-comer with flattering attention, "that is the young daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird who nested in Lincoln Park last summer. For some reason they decided not to go South this season but remained in Chicago all winter. She strikes me as being a very pretty young-lady bird, and certainly it will be no more than friendly upon my part to fly over there and inquire how she and her family withstood the rigors of a Northern winter."

From Miss Bluebird's demeanor, when he alighted upon a twig beside her, I concluded she greatly disapproved of his unceremonius approach. Prettily lifting her wings and lightly trembling upon her perch she made as if to fly away, but instead only changed her position a little, coyly turning aside her head while listening to what the young gentleman had to say.

Encouraged by this Mr. Bluebird's manner became very friendly indeed, and very soon, reassured by his respectful demeanor and sentiments uttered in a voice of oh, such touching sweetness, the young-lady bird unbent, responding at length in a very amiable manner, I noticed, to her companion's remarks.

The conversation which followed may have been very commonplace or very bright and sparkling, but as there is always an undercurrent of sadness in the bluebird's note, and an air of pensiveness expressed in its actions, one could only conjecture what the tenor of this one might be.

The pair, to my intense satisfaction, the next day met again in the top of the maple tree exchanging confidences in low, tremulous strains of surpassing sweetness, uneasily shifting their stations from time to time, lifting their wings, as is their pretty habit, and trembling lightly upon their perches as though about to rise and fly away.

The following morning, which was the fourteenth day of February, Mr. Bluebird's manner when he greeted his new acquaintance appeared to offend her very much. She was cold and distant, whether from maidenly coyness or a laudable desire to check his too confident, proprietorship sort of air, who can say? In no way daunted, that gay bachelor pressed his suit warmly, picturing in tones of peculiar tenderness the snug little home they would establish together, what a devoted husband he would be, attentive, submissive, following her directions in all things. Miss Bluebird shook her head.

It was all very well, she replied, for him to talk of poetry and romance, but he knew well enough that upon her would devolve all the serious cares of life. While he would be very active in hunting for tenements, submitting, no doubt, to her choice, was it not the custom of all the Mr. Bluebirds to fly ahead in quest of material, gayly singing, while their mates selected and carried and builded the nest? What poetry would there be in life for her, she would like to know, under such circumstances, and then, when all was done, to sit for hours and days on the eggs she had laid in order to rear a brood. Oh, no! She was not ready to give up all the pleasures of life yet, and then—and then—Miss Bluebird lowered her eyes and stammered something about being too young to leave her mother.

What argument Mr. Bluebird brought to bear against this latter reason for rejecting his suit I cannot say, but being a wise bird he only stifled a laugh behind his foot and continued more warmly to press it. Again and again he followed her when she took a short flight, quavering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly, no doubt telling her of the many good qualities of the Mr. Bluebirds, how devoted they were, how they ever relied upon the good judgment and practical turn of their mates, never directing, never disputing, but by cheerful song and gesture encouraging and applauding everything they did. Then, too, unlike some other husbands that wear feathers, they regularly fed their mates when sitting upon the nest and did their duty afterward in helping to rear the young.

As he talked Miss Bluebird's coldness gradually melted till at length she coyly accepted his invitation to descend and examine a certain tenement which, hoping for her acceptance, he had the day previous, he said, been to view.

"We can at least look it over," he said artfully, noticing the elevation of her bill at the word "acceptance," "though of course it is too early in the season to occupy it. Mr. Purple Martin lived in it last year and——"

Miss Bluebird interrupted him, a trifle haughtily, I thought.

"Is the tenement you speak of in a stump, fence hole, or tree cavity?" she inquired.

"Neither," he hastened to answer; "it is a box erected by the owner of these premises."

"Ah," said she, graciously, "that is another matter," and very amiably spread her wings and descended upon the roof of the box in question.

"You see," explained Mr. Bluebird, "the man who put up this dwelling knew what he was about. He had no intention the sparrows should occupy it, so he built it without any doorsteps or piazza, as you have no doubt remarked."

"Really," replied Miss Bluebird, "in my opinion that is a great defect. A house without doorsteps——"

"Is just what certain families want," interrupted Mr. Bluebird, smilingly. "Our enemies, the sparrows, cannot fly directly into a nest hole or box like this, as we can, but must have a perch upon which first to alight. It is for that reason, my dear, this house was built without doorsteps. No sparrow families are wanted here."

Miss Bluebird at this juncture thought it proper to be overcome with a feeling of shyness, and could not be prevailed upon to enter the box.

More than once her companion flew in and returned to her side, singing praises of its coziness as a place of abode.

"With new furnishings it will do capitally," said he; "we might even make the Purple Martins' nest do with a little——"

Miss Bluebird's bill at once went up into the air.

"If there is anything I detest," said she, scornfully, "it is old furniture, especially second-hand beds. If that is the best you have to offer a prospective bride, Mr. Bluebird, I will bid you good-day," and the haughty young creature prettily fluttered her wings as if about to fly off and leave him.

"Do not go," he pleaded; "if this house does not please you I have others to offer," and Miss Bluebird, moved apparently by his tender strains, sweetly said tru-al-ly and condescended to fly down and enter the box.

It was scarcely a minute ere she reappeared, and, flying at once to her favorite branch in the maple tree, called to him to follow. A scrap of paper, woven into his nest by the Purple Martin the past season, fluttered to the ground as she emerged from the box, and while the pair exchanged vows of love and constancy up in the maple tree, I picked it up and saw, not without marveling at the sagacity of Mr. Bluebird, who probably had dragged it into sight, a heart faintly drawn in red ink, and below it the words:

"Thou art my valentine!"