One day last spring, in looking over the contents of some boxes which had long been stowed away in the attic, I found some pieces of lace, which, though old-fashioned, seemed to me very pretty. But they were yellow with age,—quite too yellow for use.
I took them to the kitchen, and, after a nice washing, spread them on the grass to bleach. I knew that the bright sun would soon take away their yellow hue.
A day or two after, Johnnie came running in, and said, "Auntie, the birds are carrying off all your old rags out there," pointing to the place where the laces were spread. Out I went to see about my "old rags," as he called them; and I found that several pieces were missing. We knew that the birds must have taken them; but, where to look for them, we could not tell.

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