the grain bent before the wind and was 

 beaten as by a mighty flail, and large 

 white stones bounded high in exalta- 

 tion above the ruin they had wrought. 



My hero lay beneath a large gray stone 

 and escaped uninjured but when the 

 storm was spent, shaking his dampened 

 feathers, he started forth. All unheed- 

 ing him, a hawk passed by dragging a 

 broken wing; a maimed grouse fluttered 

 along the ground, and his beautiful 

 mother lay with her storm-beaten breast 

 turned to the pitiless sky, while across 

 the ice-strewn prairie came the sad note 

 of her lonely mate. 



He passed the remainder of the sum- 

 mer and autumn without farther adven- 

 ture save when, the water supply hav- 

 ing failed in the ravine he frequented, 

 he visited a barn yard to slack his thirst 

 and venturing too far over the brim of 

 the watering tank, he fell in and was 

 found there by the farmer's daughter, an 

 apparently lifeless form. After warm- 

 ing him by the kitchen fire, rubbing his 

 damp plumage, and blowing into his 

 unresisting throat, her efforts were re- 

 warded and he showed signs of return- 

 ing life ; but before his unsteady limbs 

 would bear him, the instinct of self- 

 preservation asserted itself and he began 

 pecking viciously at the hands that had 

 saved his life, showing that the mouth 

 held open for the exit of the sweetest 

 song may be used for sterner things. 



The prairie grasses were brown and 

 dry and the first snowflakes had fallen 

 before he joined others of his tribe on 

 the long migration southward. I know 

 not of his adventures in his sunny win- 

 ter home but before the snow had left 

 the northern slopes and slight ravines, 

 before the swelling buds had unfurled 

 their tender leaflets to the breeze, his 

 joyous song was once more heard upon 

 the prairie and each human listener 

 gladly welcomed the sweet harbinger of 

 spring. 



In due time, he and his newly chosen 

 mate began the structure of their dwell- 

 ing and his heart seemed overflowing 

 with joy as in the cool early morning, the 

 genial warmth of noontide, or in the 

 soft hush of evening he called to her 

 whose responsive notes seemed the faint, 

 sweet echo of his song. 



But, alas, that man should so often 

 change the purest domestic joys of his 

 feathered friends to keenest sorrow ! 

 One evening while singing on a stake 

 by the roadside, all trustful of the human 

 pedestrian approaching him, a shot rang 

 out : the song was stilled and the min- 

 strel's life-blood stained the springtime 

 grasses while through the still evening 

 air sounded the single mournful note of 

 his mate, repeated again and again in 

 accents of dispair, one of the saddest 

 notes that Nature ever knows. 



Hattie Washburn. 



A BIRD IN THE HAND. 



While visiting a primary schoolroom 

 near Chicago, my attention was called to 

 a frightened hummingbird, incessantly 

 beating its dainty head against the ceil- 

 ing of the room. For over an hour, with- 

 out a moment's pause, the poor creature 

 strove in its agony of fear to find an 

 exit through the hard plaster, which 

 must have seemed like a sky of hereto- 

 fore unknown resistance 



While the pupils were being dismissed, 

 the tiny bird dashed down behind a large 



framed picture, which offered a semi- 

 shady retreat. It could have found no 

 spot on which to cling, for when the 

 frame was lifted the bird fell to the 

 blackboard ledge, where I caught it in 

 my hands. Its head fell to one side from 

 either fright or other exhaustion, and it 

 seemed to be dying. "Get some syrup," 

 I called to my friend. There was none 

 to be had. "Then get some sugar and 

 water as quickly as possible," and as 

 these were at hand they were made ready 



