142 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



— all the world seemed full of happy home- 

 makers. 



But soon I saw a sight that made me forget 

 everything else. There were my brave little birds 

 up in the oak working upon a beautiful moss cup 

 that hung from a forked twig. They were build- 

 ing together, flying rapidly back and forth bring- 

 ing bits of moss from the brush to put in their 

 nest. 



They worked independently, each hunting moss 

 and placing it to its own satisfaction. What one 

 did the other would be well pleased with, I felt 

 sure. But while each worked according to its 

 own ideas, they always appeared to be working 

 together ; they could not bear to be out of sight 

 of each other long at a time. When the small 

 father bird found himself at the nest alone, after 

 placing his material he would stand and call to 

 let his pretty mate know that he was waiting for 

 her ; or else sit down by the nest and warble over 

 such a contented, happy little lay it warmed my 

 heart just to listen to him. 



When his mate appeared the merry birds would 

 chase off for a race through the treetops. Song 

 and play were mingled with their work, but, for 

 all that, the happy builders' house grew under 

 their bands, and they kept faithfully at their task 

 of preparing the home for their little brood. Once 

 the small, dainty mother bird, — surely it must 

 have been she, — after putting in her bit of moss, 



