A PET HUMMING-BIRD. 99 
it came to know the spoon by sight and to look for it 
when we were coming. We moistened our lips with 
the syrup, and the little thing would move towards us, 
placing its bill on our lips and thrusting its dainty 
tongue all around in a way that was very amusing. 
We did not know as much about humming-birds then 
as we have learned since, or we should have fed it as 
often as every fifteen minutes, and used honey in place 
of water. 
It loved to perch on the edge of a wicker basket, 
whose rim was so easy to cling to. It would shimmer 
in the sunshine like a piece of silk, no larger than “a 
great big bumble-bee.” 
In a few days it could fly all about the room, but it 
could not fix its toes on or around anything, and would 
fall helpless to the floor or drop behind the pictures. 
It was cold at night, though we covered it with warm 
things, and often we would warm it in our hands before 
morning. It needed the warmth of its mother’s breast. 
It learned to drink cold water, and to expect it after 
each meal of syrup, as if it wanted to rinse its mouth. 
It lapped up the water like a kitten, its queer, frail 
tongue looking like a bit of black thread in the clear 
water. 
We tried to get it to take tiny spiders, which we 
hunted in the garden, but it refused, and did not live 
with us very long. 
We think we ought to have given it a little milk to 
take the place of spiders, which it must have missed. 
