The Wounded Redstart. 



229 



tion was attracted by a little bird which 

 ran before me down the pathway, occasion- 

 ally looking back to see if I were following, 

 I thought, and making a note or call which 

 I can only compare to the sound of a kiss. 



I saw at a glance it was not one of my 

 sparrow friends by the yellow tail, but I 

 could not approach close enough to note 

 the less clearly defined peculiarities of 

 plumage, and by this time the little sprite 

 had neared a tree which he would fly into, 

 of course, and be lost to view. 



To my surprise, however, he did not fly 

 into the tree, but darted behind it instead. 

 This was such an unbirdlike proceeding 

 that I hastened forward to see what was 

 the matter, and soon found the object of 

 my search in the long grass, where I easily 

 secured him. 



Such a minute body ! and, oh ! sad to 

 relate, a broken wing, probably the work 

 of a stone, or bean snapper, in the hands of 

 some heartless boy. 



Poor little victim, standing helpless in 

 the pathway, deprived of his only means of 

 escape from his many enemies ! I under- 

 stood now the pretty timid devices to at- 

 tract my attention, and conciliate my good 

 will. 



How glad I was I had not delayed com- 

 ing out just to do this, or to finish that ! 

 And before the cat next door had made 

 her matutinal exploration of that identical 

 long grass. 



"But you're safe now, my birdie!" I 

 cried, "so calm your fluttering little breast," 

 and I really think that the feeling of my 

 hands round the little fellow gave him a 

 sense of security, for he made no effort to 

 escape, and looked up at me most confid- 

 ingly. 



As I hastened back to the house, I en- 

 countered my sister, who had promised to 

 overtake me in my walk. 



"I've got a wounded bird," I exclaimed, 

 "run, and get something to put it into," 

 and by the time I had reached my room, a 



basket with some soft clothes laid in the 

 bottom was ready to receive the little suf- 

 ferer. Not knowing what food to feed 

 him, I scattered some rape seed in the 

 basket, and tied a piece of coarse white net 

 over the top. Then I darkened the room, 

 and set out again to resume my walk. 



As soon as I returned I hurried up-stairs 

 to my bird; he had not eaten the seed, and 

 was flitting about in a very restless manner. 



As I looked at the slender bill, I saw it 

 was not adapted for cracking seed, but for 

 insect food. 



Acting on this surmise, I ran down to 

 the kitchen, took away the fly-blinds from 

 the windows, put a towel in the hands of 

 the Swedish girl, and pointing to a fly said, 

 "Smite, and spare not." 



"Spare not," she reiterated, thinking she 

 had learnt the name of a fly. 



I nodded assent. It was no time to dis- 

 cuss the niceties of the English language, 

 when my bird was probably starving. 



Then I went into the garden, determined 

 to catch something. 



First I examined a rosebush, but there 

 was no sign of a grub- or a worm, so I got 

 on my knees and looked upward through 

 the branches, when, oh joy ! a luscious 

 green caterpillar on the under side of a 

 leaf, just above my head. I detached the 

 leaf, and, judging from the brisk cannonade 

 which had been going on in the kitchen, 

 that a liberal supply of flies awaited me, 

 was considerably disappointed to find that 

 the number of killed and wounded oniy 

 amounted to six, all told. But half a loaf 

 is better than none, so I flew up-stairs, and 

 had no sooner introduced the caterpillar 

 into the basket, than the sufferer darted 

 upon it with an avidity which left no doubt 

 in my mind as to the kind of food he was 

 accustomed to. 



The flies were received with even more 

 favor, and discussed in the same apprecia- 

 tive spirit. 



I knew now what food to feed him — but 



