BIRD STORIES 



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The little rascals could practise the art of camouflage. 



But as he stood and looked, a wistful light came into 

 the eyes of the man. It had been many years since he 

 had found nesting birds and watched the ways of them. 

 His memory brought old pictures back to him. The 

 crotch in the tree, where the robin had plastered her 

 nest, modeling the mud with her feathered breast; the 

 brook-edge willows, where the blackbirds built; the 

 meadow, with its hidden homes of bobolinks; and the 

 woods where the whip-poor-wills called o' nights. His 

 thoughts made a boy of him again, and he forgot every- 

 thing else in the world in his wish to see the little birds 

 he felt sure must be among the pebbles before him. So 

 he crept about carefully, here and there, and at last came 

 upon the children of Mis. He picked up the fluffy little 

 balls of down and snuggled them gently in his big hands 

 for a moment. Then he put them back to their safe roof, 



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