WAR ON THE INSECTS. 23 



or otherwise prepared, so that he could swal- 

 low it. 



Midsummer was at hand. The voices of 

 young birds were heard on every side. The 

 young thrasher and the robin chirped in the 

 grove; sweet bluebird and pewee baby cries 

 came from the shrubbery; the golden-wing 

 leaned far out of his oaken walls, and called 

 from morning to night. Hard-working parents 

 rushed hither and thither, snatching, digging, 

 or dragging their prey from every imaginable 

 hiding-place. It was woful times in the insect 

 world, so many new hungry mouths to be filled. 

 All this life seemed to stir the young kings : they 

 grew restless; they were late. Their three lit- 

 tle heads, growing darker every day, bobbed this 

 way and that ; they changed places in the nest ; 

 they thrust out small wings; above all and 

 through all, they violently preened themselves. 

 In fact, this elaborate dressing of feathers was 

 their constant business for so long a time that I 

 thought it no wonder the grown-up kingbird 

 pays little attention to his dress; he does 

 enough plimiing in the nursery to last a lifetime. 



On the twelfth day of their life, the young 

 birds added their voices to the grand world- 

 chorus in a faint, low "che-up," delivered with 

 a kingbird accent ; then, also, they began to sit 

 up calmly, and look over the edge of the nest at 



