A FAMILY ON MY HANDS, 



AS I stood leaning over the garden 

 fence one Sabbath evening, admiring 

 a stretch of billowy meadow beyond, my 

 attention was drawn to a startled bird which 

 fluttered from the grasses a few feet distant, 

 and as it alighted on the fence near by, I 

 recognized it as the black-throated bunt- 

 ing [Euspiza americana). Suspecting a nest, 

 I made search and discovered one in a thick 

 bunch of clover and timothy, fastened to 

 the tall millet clover stems, about one foot 

 from the ground, and containing five beau- 

 tiful eggs. A neat little home it was, scent- 

 ed with the breath of the blossoming clover, 

 and swaying gently with every passing 

 breeze; it reminded me of the old nursery 

 rhyme, of " Rock-a-by babies all in the tree 

 top," etc.; indeed I used to be under consid- 

 erable apprehension lest the "cradle should 

 fall," and always visited it after each storm, 

 but this calamity did not overtake them. 



Little Mabel was with me when I discov- 

 ered the nest, and we agreed that it should 

 be a secret between ourselves; that even 

 master Charlie should not be told, because 

 the "collector" of the family had offered 

 him "a great big nickle " for every nest he 

 discovered, and the temptation might be 

 too great for him; nevertheless, the "col- 

 lector" did surmise that we had found it, 

 and had the effrontery to attempt to bribe 

 us into telling him; we had the moral cour- 

 age to resist him, however. 



Well, in the course of a week or ten days, 

 there were five little birdies in the nest, and 

 then we did not hesitate to inform the 

 "collector, " and, to his credit be it said, 

 he soon became as much interested in the 

 little family as we, and very interesting it 

 was, to watch the parent birds flit back and 

 forth on their ceaseless errands to obtain 

 food for the little hungry mouths. I used 

 to pity them sometimes, they had so much 

 to do, but they seemed very happy never- 

 theless, and would steal a moment every 



now and then to alight on the fence, at a 

 safe distance from the nest, you may be 

 sure, and regale us with their merry Look 

 at me ! see ! see ! see! Look at me .' see I see ! 

 see! 



One day, when the birdies were perhaps 

 a week old, little Mabel came running in 

 with the startling intelligence that the reap- 

 er was at work cutting the grasses in the 

 field where our nestlings were hidden. My 

 dismay at this announcement can easily be 

 imagined; the parent birds themselves could 

 hardly have been more distressed. Had I 

 saved them from the unsparing hand of the 

 collector, only to have them meet a far 

 worse fate ? I simply could not, would not 

 see them cut in pieces by the cruel sickle; 

 and so, painful as the duty was, we tore the 

 little nest from its fastenings, and carried it 

 to a place of safety. The reaper did its 

 work; the sheltering grasses were leveled 

 to the earth, but the nestlings were un- 

 harmed. 



We carried the nest, as nearly as we could 

 determine, to its former place, made a wall 

 of hay around it, and stood off to watch if 

 the parent birds, which in the meantime had 

 been flitting hither and thither, sweeping low 

 over the place where the nest had been, and 

 evincing the greatest anxiety and distress, 

 would find it. In a few moments, however, 

 the mother bird had discovered her children, 

 and joyfully and hastily settled down upon 

 them. And for ourselves, we were inex- 

 pressibly glad that our adopted family had 

 escaped so great a peril. But dangers 

 equally great awaited them. From its ex- 

 posed position the nest could be easily dis- 

 covered by the bad boys of the neighbor- 

 hood; besides there were huge turkeys now 

 stalking these meadows who would "gobble 

 them up " on sight like so many grasshop- 

 pers; to say nothing of the dogs and cats 

 and other enemies. What to do I did not 

 know, and in sore dilemma I consulted the 



