I live high up in a city house all alone.  My room is a cosy little place, though there is nothing very splendid in it, — only my pictures and books, my flowers and my little friend.  When I began to live there, I was very busy and therefore very happy; but by-and-by, when my hurry was over and I had more time to myself, I often felt lonely.  When I ate my meals I used to wish for a pleasant companion to eat with me; and when I sat by the fire of evenings, I thought how much more social it would be if some one sat opposite.  I had many friends and callers through the day, but the evenings were often rather dull; for I couldn’t read much, and didn’t care to go out in the stormy weather.

I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, when all of a sudden I found one; for, sitting on my hand, I saw a plump, jolly-looking fly.  He sat quietly staring at me, with a mild little hum, as if to say, —

‘How are you?  You wanted a friend, and here I am.  Will you have me?’

Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was so cheery and confiding, and seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him.  All his mates were dead and gone, and he was alone, like myself.  So I waggled one finger, by way of welcome, fearing to shake my hand, lest he should tumble off and feel hurt at my reception.  He seemed to understand me, and buzzed again, evidently saying, —

’Thank you, ma’am.  I should like to stay in your warm room, and amuse you for my board.  I won’t disturb you, but do my best to be a good little friend.’

So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea.  I found that his manners had been neglected; for he was inclined to walk over the butter, drink out of the cream-pot, and put his fingers in the jelly.  A few taps with my spoon taught him to behave with more propriety, and he sipped a drop of milk from the waiter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred fly should do.

On account of his fine voice, I named him Buzz, and we soon got on excellently together.  He seemed to like his new quarters, and, after exploring every corner of the room, he chose his favourite haunts and began to enjoy himself.  I always knew where he was, for he kept up a constant song, humming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting ready to boil.

On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping his head against the window, and watching what went on outside.  It would have given me a headache, but he seemed to enjoy it immensely.  Up in my hanging basket of ivy he made his bower, and sat there on the moss basking in the sunshine, as luxuriously as any gentleman in his conservatory.  He was interested in the plants, and examined them daily with great care, walking over the ivy leaves, grubbing under the moss, and poking his head into the unfolding hyacinth buds to see how they got on.

The pictures, also, seemed to attract his attention, for he spent much time skating over the glasses and studying the designs.  Sometimes I would find him staring at my Madonna, as if he said, ’What in the world are all those topsy-turvy children about?’ Then he’d sit in the middle of a brook, in a water-color sketch by Vautin, as if bathing his feet, or seem to be eating the cherry which one little duck politely offers another little duck, in Oscar Pletch’s Summer Party.  He frequently kissed my mother’s portrait, and sat on my father’s bald head, as if trying to get out some of the wisdom stored up there, like honey in an ill-thatched bee-hive.  My bronze Mercury rather puzzled him, for he could not understand why the young gentleman didn’t fly off when he had four wings and seemed in such a hurry.

I’m afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before the glass a great deal, and I often saw him cleaning his proboscis, and twiddling his feelers, and I know he was ‘prinking,’ as we say.  The books pleased him, too, and he used to run them over, as if trying to choose which he would read, and never seemed able to decide.  He would have nothing to say to the fat French Dictionary, or my English Plays, but liked Goethe and Schiller, Emerson and Browning, as well as I did.  Carlyle didn’t suit him, and Richter evidently made his head ache.  But Jean Ingelow’s Poems delighted him, and so did her ‘Stories told to a Child.’  ’Fairy Bells’ he often listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in a photograph book of foreign places and great people.

He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, and thought it a charming residence for a single gentleman like himself.  The closet delighted him extremely, and he buzzed in the most joyful manner when he got among the provisions, — for we kept house together.  Such revels as he had in the sugar-bowl; such feasts of gingerbread and grapes; such long sips of milk, and sly peeps into every uncovered box and dish!  Once I’m afraid he took too much cider, for I found him lying on his back, kicking and humming like a crazy top, and he was very queer all the rest of that day; so I kept the bottle corked after that.  But his favorite nook was among the ferns in the vase which a Parian dancing-girl carried.  She stood just over the stove on one little toe, rattling some castanets, which made no sound, and never getting a step farther for all her prancing.  This was a warm and pretty retreat for Buzz, and there he spent much of his time, swinging on the ferns, sleeping snugly in the vase, or warming his feet in the hot air that blew up, like a south wind, from the stove.

I don’t believe there was a happier fly in Boston than my friend Buzz, and I grew fonder and fonder of him every day; for he never got into mischief, but sung his cheery song, no matter what the weather was, and made himself agreeable.  Then he was so interested in all I did, it was delightful to have him round.  When I wrote he came and walked about over my paper to see that it was right, peeped into my ink-stand, and ran after my pen.  He never made silly or sharp criticisms on my stories, but appeared to admire them very much; so I am sure he was a good judge.  When I sewed, he sat in my basket, or played hide-and-seek in the folds of my work, talking away all the while in the most sociable manner.  He often flew up all of a sudden, and danced about in the air, as if he was in such a jolly mood he couldn’t keep still, and wanted me to come and play with him.  But, alas!  I had no wings, and could only sit stupidly still, and laugh at his pranks.  That was his exercise, for he never went out, and only took a sniff of air now and then when I opened the windows.

Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks, and never got tired of one another, which is saying a good deal.  At Christmas I went home for a week and left my room to take care of itself.  I put the hyacinths into the closet to be warm, and dropped the curtain, so the frost should not nip my ivy; but I forgot Buzz.  I really would have taken him with me, or carried him down to a neighbour’s room to be taken care of while I was away, but I never thought of him in the hurry of getting my presents and myself ready.  Off I went without even saying ‘good-bye,’ and never thought of my little friend till Freddy, my small nephew, said to me one evening at dusk, —

‘Aunt Jo, tell me a story.’

So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a sudden I cried out, —

‘Mercy on me!  I’m afraid he’ll die of cold while I’m gone.’

It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know how the poor little fellow was so much that I would have gone to see if I had not been so far away.  But it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty miles to look after one fly:  so I finished my visit, and then went back to my room, hoping to find Buzz alive and well in spite of the cold.

Alas, no! my little friend was gone.  There he lay on his back on the mantel-piece, his legs meekly folded, and his wings stiff and still.  He had evidently gone to the warm place, and been surprised when the heat died out and left him to freeze.  My poor little Buzz had sung his last song, danced his last dance, and gone where the good flies go.  I was very sorry and buried him among the ivy roots, where the moss lay green above him, the sun shone warmly on him, and the bitter cold could never come.  I miss him very much; when I sit writing, I miss his cheerful voice and busy wings; at meals there is no tiny little body to drink up spilt drops and eat the crumbs:  in the evenings, when I sit alone, I want him more than ever, and every day, as I water my plants, I say, softly, —

’Grow green, ivy, lie lightly, moss, shine warmly, sun, and make his last bed pleasant to my little friend.’