8 THE BIRD OF THE MORNING. 



found it to be a young robin, which had fallen 

 from a nest, and which, no doubt, the usually 

 meek turkey thought threatened danger to hei" 

 own infant. 



The poor little fellow was too badly hurt to 

 live, and although the turkey was removed, 

 some time passed before calmness was restored 

 to tlie neigliborhood. It seemed to me that tlie 

 chatter in the trees that evening was kept up 

 longer than usual, and I fancied that every little 

 youngster still living in the nest heard the dire- 

 ful tale, and received a solemn warning. 



I was surprised to discover, in my close atten- 

 tion to them, that although early to rise, robins 

 are by no means early to bed. Long after every 

 feather was supposed to be at rest for the night, 

 I would sit out and listen to the gossip, the last 

 words, the scraps of song, — different in every 

 individual robin, yet all variations on the theme 

 " Be cheery," — and often the sharp '' He he he 

 he he ! " so like a girl's laugh, out of the shad- 

 owy depths of the maple. 



Once I saw a performance that looked as if 

 the robin wanted to play a joke " with intent 

 to deceive." Hearing a strange bird-note, as 

 usual I hastened to my post. From the depths 

 of a thick chestnut-tree came every moment 

 a long-drawn-out, mournful " S-e-e-e-p ! " as 

 though some bird was calling its mate. It was 



