I really grew afraid of him, as he liked to watch my eyes, and once picked at them, as he always picked at any shining bit.
What respect I now feel for a sober, steady-going, successful old hen, who raises brood after brood of downy darlings without mishaps! Her instinct is an inspiration.

Kizzie liked to perch on my finger and catch flies for his dinner.

How solemn, wise, and bewitching he did look as he snapped at and swallowed fifteen flies, uttering all the time a satisfied little note, quite distinct from his musical slumber song! How he enjoyed lying on one side, stretched out at full length, to bask in the sun, a miniature copy of his magnificent father! Very careful was he of his personal appearance, pruning and preening his pretty feathers many times each day, paying special attention to his tail--not more than an inch long--but what a prophecy of the future! As mothers care most for the most troublesome child, so I grew daily more fond of cute little Kizzie, more anxious that he should live.
I could talk all day of his funny ways, of his fondness for me, of his daily increasing intelligence, of his hair-breadth escapes, etc.
The old story--the dear gazelle experience came all too soon.
Completely worn out with my constant vigils, I intrusted him for one night to a friend who assured me that she was a most quiet sleeper, and that he could rest safely on her fingers.

I was too tired to say no.
She came to me at daybreak, with poor Kizzie dead in her hands.

He died like Desdemona, smothered with pillows.