He laughs silently, and chirps back again, a longer warble this time. " Hail to thee, blithe spirit! What objects are the fountains of thy happy strain?"

The bird chirps again, and puffs its feathers proudly. Bahorel grins approval.

" There was a time, last year, before you arrived, when we all had our souls in birds-- ah, I'm not being poetic, though it was a thing to drive a poet for certain!-- but for a moment I thought this fellow must be yours. But he's too much the braggart." Takes one to know one! "--Have you given him a name?"