The Ruby-Throated Hummingbird 187 



ous ui)pcr plumage, and dull while undcrparts, a bird that we see frequently 

 in orchards during the migrations. Though this Kinglet is only about one point 

 longer than the Wren, and about one-fourth of an inch longer than the Ruby- 

 throat, it appears to be much larger on account of its fluffy breast feathers. 



So slim and compact is the Humm'ngbird that, seen at the usual distance, 

 its plumage has more the appearance of metal work than the shaft and down 

 of feathers. It's voice also has the sharp squeak of metallic contact, and is 

 utterly unlike the usual bird note. I have heard precisely the same tone from a 

 mouse. But, at close range, all these qualities are transformed. This is a case 

 when a bird in the hand gave me a different idea of that same bird in the 

 bush, forevermore. 



Let it be distinctly understood, however, that the coming within range of 

 my touch was by way of succor, and not by way of capture. Many times as 

 the same thing has happened, the first is the best remembered, like many 

 other first times, from the combination of surprise and novelty. 



It was at the beginning of rose time. The long-tubed honeysuckles on the 

 back porch brought the Hummingbirds in close range with the dining-room 

 window, and, apparently fearless, they came to and fro during all the daylight 

 hours, sometimes conversing in amicable squeaks, and then again waging a 

 warfare of evidently angry words and beak thrusts, even though the pair were 

 mates, one with the ruby-throat and the female without, after the family 

 custom. 



The lower part of the large window was screened by wire netting, the upper 

 sash, with its diamond panes backed by the partly darkened room, made a 

 series of mirrors, in which the male bird presently spied his own reflection. 

 Could a high-spirited cavalier allow a rival not only to be in the same garden 

 but to be hovering above the very honeysuckle with Mrs. Ruby! Forward and 

 back went Sir Ruby, fencing with the reflection first in one pane and then 

 another, squeaking shrUly, and gradually coming so close that he struck the 

 pane recklessly. Then came a slip and a desperate thrust, when flying too low, 

 the bird was caught by the beak in the firm meshes of the wire screen, where, 

 after a single effort, he hung quite stunned by the shock. 



Going outside, after hesitating a moment, — so frail and intangible a thing 

 it seemed to touch, — I gently released the bill and laid the little body, now 

 inert, with limp neck, in my palm. The tiny claws were closed like clenched 

 fists; had its neck been broken, — was it dead? No, for the eyes were open 

 bright, though they did not see, and one of the things that I learned years 

 ago from that unfailing observer. Dr. Elliott Coues, was that, contrary to other 

 forms of animal life, the eyes of a bird always shut in death. 



As I closed my hand a little, with the natural instinct to brood and comfort 

 the one hurt, I suddenly felt the thump of that mite of a heart, and the head 

 raised a bit and then fell back again, beak parted. Water and a grass blade 

 to carry the water to the beak drop by drop was the next step. The bill 



