No, indeed! He would not stay in box or basket, or anywhere but cradled close in my neck.

There he wished to remain, twittering happily, giving now and then a sweet, little, tremulous trill, indicative of content, warmth, and drowsiness; if I dared to move ever so little, showing by a sharp scratch from his claws that he preferred absolute quiet.

One night, when all worn out, I rose and put him in a hat box and covered it closely, but his piercing cries of distress and anger prevented the briefest nap, reminding me of the old man who said, "Yes, it's pretty dangerous livin' anywheres." I was so afraid of hurting him that I scarcely dared move.

Each night we had a prolonged battle, but he never gave in for one instant until he could roost on my outstretched finger or just under my chin.

Then he would settle down, the conflict over, he as usual the victor, and the sweet little lullaby would begin.
One night I rose hastily to close the windows in a sudden shower.