But my thrushes have well repaid the trouble. They call me when I go
into the room, and come to me when I open the door of their cage, and
perch on my shoulder. One of them, Israfil, sings divinely. People who
come to hear him see only a little brown bird with speckled breast,
and call him a thrush; but _I_ know he is Israfil, 'the angel of song,
and most melodious of God's creatures;' and _he_ thinks that I have
wings. He told me so!
"I wish you would send me a basket of snails packed up in lettuce
leaves. I don't know why, but I can find none here, and I cannot hear
of one ever having been seen in the county. But please do not send them
unless you are quite sure you can spare them."
"Ideala is trying to hide herself behind these pretty trivialities,"
Claudia said. "I always suspect that there is something more wrong than
usual when she adopts this playful tone and childlike simplicity of
taste."
"It must be trying to have a friend who believes so little in one as
you do in Ideala," I answered.
"Oh, how exasperating you are!" Claudia exclaimed. "You know what I
mean quite well enough.
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