tered bodies while they were still warm. 

 No doubt the blackbird jury decided 

 that the culprits were guilty of some 

 grave state offense." 



''I, for one, would never had believed 

 it if any body less truthful than Auntie 

 had told me," said John. 



"Notwithstanding the disagreeable 

 scene in which I somehow seemed to 

 have a share, I rather like the black- 

 bird and agree with Richard Jefferies, 

 that inimitable observer, when he says: 

 'The whistle of the blackbird is very 

 human, like a human being playing the 

 flute; an uncertain player drawing forth 

 a bar of beautiful melody and then los- 

 ing it again. He does not know what 

 quirk or what turn his note will take 

 before it ends; the note leads him and 

 completes itself. It is a song which 

 seems to express the singer's exquisite 

 appreciation of the loneliness of the 

 days, the golden glory of the meadow, 

 the light, the luxuriant shade, the indo- 

 lent clouds reclining on their azure 

 couch. Such thoughts can only be 

 expressed in fragments. Now and 

 again the blackbird feels the beauty 

 of the time, the large white daisy 

 stars, the grass with yellow-dusted 

 tips, the air which comes so softly 

 unperceived by any precedent rus- 

 tle of the hedge, the water which runs 

 slower, held awhile by violets of flag 

 or forget-me-not. He feels the beauty 

 of the time and he must say it. His 

 notes come like wild flowers not sown 

 in order. The sunshine opens and shuts 

 the stops of his instrument." 



"Thank you so much. Auntie, for such 

 a beautiful quotation. What else has 

 Jefferies written about nature?" 



"Read his 'Wood Magic,' and other 

 books and see." 



"The true artist among birds is the 

 hermit thrush, is he not?" Edith in- 

 quired. 



"Yes, the 'swamp angel,' as he is 

 called, surpasses most birds in the qual- 

 ity of his song — 



"Sometimes his voice is mute. 

 He ponders things divine ; 

 Then sounds his magic flute 

 And makes the woods a shrine." 



"How do birds stand as regards their 

 locomotion?" John interrupted. 



"The highest amone animals for vari- 



ety, of movement. They walk, run, hop, 

 wade, swim, dive, dance and fly. A 

 bird's respiration is very rapid. A man 

 who should inhale an equal quantity of 

 air at one breath would be suffocated. 

 Supplied constantly with so much air, 

 the muscles are alinost inexhaustible. 

 Michelet is probably correct in saying 

 that some birds sweep the air five or 

 six times faster than the most rapid 

 railway train can move ; outstripping the 

 hurricane and with no rival but the light- 

 ning. But the amenities of bird life are 

 not the least interesting feature of a 

 study of our feathered friends. True, 

 good behavior is not always at a pre- 

 mium among them. The unsocial owl, 

 for all his fine raiment and velvet-like 

 wings has thoughts of plunder and 

 blood, as may be divined by a glance at 

 his cat-like physiognomy; one variety 

 has the globe of the eye immovable in 

 the socket, hence it turns its supple 

 neck almost in a complete circle in order 

 to see different objects." 



"Just imagine," exclaimed Howard, 

 "how appalled its victim must feel at 

 sight of the brilliant golden-yellow eyes 

 as the terrible talons seize upon it. I 

 saw one once at Duluth and I'll never 

 forget it!" 



"Other ill-behaved birds are English 

 sparrows. During a recent rain storm 

 I saw two sparrows fighting each other 

 under a cedar tree. One tweaked the 

 other's head until he succeeded in get- 

 ting his victim on his back, whereupon 

 he seized the prostrate bird by the tail 

 and dragged him along the ground, but 

 meeting some obstacle he loosed his 

 hold and was soon himself in the same 

 position. When he had been in turn 

 dragged for some time, and there 

 seemed no prospect of release, some 

 sparrow compeers who were watching 

 the fight with interest from a bush near 

 by, flew down and interfered, separat- 

 ing the two soiled and feather-ruffled 

 little gamins." 



"Little gamins," said Madge, "that is 

 just what they are. I've heard them 

 called 'scavengers,' too, and that suits 

 their manner of getting food." 



"I read," said John, "that Paris has 

 more sparrows in number that she has 

 inhabitants. I'm glad the sparrow is a 

 town rather than a countrv bird." 



