'Bobby' 



By MARY S. MOSHER, Rochester, N. Y. 



IT was the middle of May. A pair of Robins had settled their nest on a 

 conductor pipe under the eaves of my house. I often watched them 

 carrying worms to the family and then, one day, a sick Robin was found 

 by the bird-bath in the garden. I picked him up and he died in my hand. 

 The next morning there was another one sick and it also died in my hand. By 

 this time I was disturbed and watched the nest under the eaves. There were 

 no birds going to it and I knew something must be done. I found I could 

 reach the nest through an upper window so I grasped it and brought it down. 

 There were three birds in it, I thought about ten days old, bare on the bodies 

 but feathered on their heads and wings. One of them was dead, but the other 

 two were clamoring for food. 



I held the nest in my hand and wondered what I should do. I was tired 

 and yet here were these two babies who wanted to live, and I was their only 

 hope. I was afraid the old birds might have eaten the rat poison we used 

 around the chicken house, and I felt a little responsible for the tragedy. Any- 

 way, I began feeding them and, as my wise friend said, as soon as I gave 

 them the first worm I was lost. 



Then, the work began. I am sure they ate a hundred worms a day. I cut 

 them up with an old pair of scissors and crammed as many down their throats 

 as they would take. After that, they would sleep for perhaps half an hour 

 and wake up hungry again. Everyone on the place helped dig and it seemed 

 as if the worm-supply would be exhausted. 



I kept the nest in a round, brown basket with a handle. The birds were 

 contented to stay in the nest for about three days, then they began to climb 

 onto the edge of the nest, and after a few days more to sit on the edge of the 

 basket and then on the handle. 



The feeding went on steadily. Everyone fed them and loved them. No 

 mother was more devoted than I. If I went to a 'movie' I rushed home to see 

 if they were all right and, of course, always found them ready for food. After 

 they had been with me for about ten days, I accepted an alluring invitation 

 for Sunday dinner and was gone three hours. When I came back the birds 

 looked weak and sick and the next morning one of them was dead. At first 

 I thought it was the bright one with the dark head that had died but I soon 

 found that it was the dull, heavy one, and the bright one was still alive, so I 

 took heart and started in again. 



I think 'Bobby,' as I began calling him, must have had the will to live 

 because I know I made all the mistakes possible, but I was devoted to him and 

 did my best. After this it was just one thrilling thing after another. I won- 

 dered how I could teach him all the things he must know but he seemed to 

 have them all in his own nature. I had only to watch him do them. By this 

 time he was hopping around the garden and I would dig worms and give them 



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