JACK. 73 



Jack. 



BY DOROTHY MAY. 



In the Long Ago, when people lighted the dark winter 

 nights with tallow candles, a candle shop stood by the side 

 of a brook. There was a great set kettle for trymg out, a 

 heavy iron press and leaden moulds. Altogether, it was a 

 pretty greasy place, with piles of fresh tallow leaves, great 

 " cheeses" of scraps, barrels of prepared tallow, and box- 

 es of candles readj^ for market, and the fall and winter 

 birds evidently thought it a feast provided by the gods for 

 their delectation. 



The presiding genius of the shop — David, the Candle- 

 maker — was an uncouth man, but he had a big heart and 

 a warm love for the sweet things of nature, especially 

 birds, and they seemed to know it. How they took pos- 

 session and over-ran the place ! For this, be it remem- 

 bered, was before they were killed that women might 

 adorn (?) themselves savage fashion with their feathers, 

 and before the occupation of America by the British spar- 

 row, when if one saw a bird he could be sure it was a na- 

 tive. There were great delightful flocks of chickadees, 

 juncos and sparrows ; hayseed was scattered for the seed- 

 eating birds — woodpeckers, robins, nuthatches, bluejays 

 and many rarer kinds. 



There were bluejays by the brook all the year, but the 

 summer dwellers who reared their young above the bridge 

 went south for the winter, and it was usually a week or 

 two before the winter residents came down from Canada, 

 swearing at one another, as it seemed, in even rougher 

 tones than their summer cousins, and wearing thicker 

 feathers. But one autumn a young summer bluejay 

 stayed ; just whj- was never known, because no one ever 

 got quite on speaking terms with him — whether he was 



