Nicodemus was a pet blackbird. A sleet storm broke the bough on which the nest was built, and all the birds, save one, were killed in the fall. This one, Nicodemus, was placed in an old hat lined with wool, and kept near the fire until he was ready to fly about the room. He was an apt scholar, and soon knew his name, responding readily to every call. When the weather became warm he was allowed the freedom of the yard. Whenever his mistress saw a stray cat about she would go out on the porch to his cage, strike upon it, and call: “Nicodemus!” “Nicodemus!” whereupon the bird would fly into his cage for safety.
One day an aged gentleman called at the house. Nicodemus came into the parlor. At first he nestled upon his mistress’ shoulder, but his curiosity seemed much excited, and he soon flew to the old gentleman, alighted upon his bald head, when he began a vigorous scratching.
“For shame, Nicodemus! Come here at once,” cried the lady. He obeyed, but with a really abashed look.
To one who cares little for natural objects a bit of bottom land in autumn has few attractions, but to the botanist of experience or to a student of nature, from late July till the first frost comes, such a place is a continuous delight.
Perhaps you have seen this very picture. If so, have you studied its details?
A half acre of swamp, which in the springtime presented a dainty background of yellowish green willows and a foreground of green pasture dotted with dandelions and blue violets, has now transformed itself into a Persian effect of gorgeous color. Blue, pink, brown, green, red, purple, white, lavender, yellow, orange brown, and these through tintings and shadings that a modern Titian would never produce, even should he wear his brush to a stub, for the very simple reason that he couldn’t.
Plant life has here run riot and because of their dense growth the varieties are almost unaccountable.
Among the showier members of this very mixed growing effect, in color, brightest is purple iron weed and the helianthus.
But joe-pye weed tosses up his woolly pink head and flauntingly asks, “With that big yellow and black butterfly on my crown am I not more showy than they?” He has to be gently reminded that all his brothers are not wearing butterflies, which fact leads to a negative decision—still he is a beauty.