194 IN BIRD LAND. 
breasted chats one spring, when their four pretty 
bairns were stolen by some heartless buccaneer, you 
would have thanked the Pleiades, Ursa Major, Ursa 
Minor, and all your other lucky stars, that you were 
a man or woman and not a bird. 
“Oh! it would be so pleasant to fly and tilt in 
the air, to dash from twig to twig, to make long 
aerial voyages to foreign countries!’’ Do TI hear 
you say that? Wait a moment. Have you ever 
thought that even the long, bounding flight of the 
swallows and swifts, accomplished apparently with- 
out effort, may sometimes become a weariness to 
the flesh, especially when insects are scarce and 
their maws empty? Then, those long nocturnal 
journeys that birds make during the migrating season 
may often tax their strength to the utmost. Indeed, 
if you will listen to their feeble chirping, as they 
sweep overhead through the darkness, you will often 
detect a note of fatigue running through it, as much 
as to say, “Ah, I wish we were at our journey’s 
end!” No; bird Jifeis notvall roseate. ot hasmts 
humdrum and drudgery, its wear and tear, its prose 
as well as its poetry, its hard realism as well as its 
romance. 
One of the tasks of bird life is the building of 
nests. It is true, the birds always do this work with 
a zest that makes it seem half play ; but, after spend- 
ing a day in gathering material and weaving it into 
the nest, scarcely taking time to stop for meals, I 
have no doubt the little toilers are ready to retire 
when bedtime comes. Have you ever watched these 
