58 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



Death or desertion, it involved a second tragedy. 

 Five such young ones at this time were too many 

 for the mother. She fought nohly ; no mother could 

 have done more. All five were brought within a few 

 days of flight; then, one day, I saw a little wing 

 hanging listlessly over the side of the nest. I went 

 closer. One had died. It had starved to death. There 

 were none of the parasites in the nest that often kill 

 whole broods. It was a plain case of sacrifice, 

 by the mother, perhaps ; by the other young, maybe 

 one for the other four. 



But she did well. Nine such young birds to her 

 credit since April. Who shall measure her actual use 

 to the world ? How does she compare in value with 

 the pig ? Weeks later I saw several of her brood 

 along the meadow fence hawking for flies. They 

 were not far from my cabbage-patch. 



I hope a pair of them will return to me next 

 spring and that they will come early. Any bird that 

 deigns to dwell under roof of mine commands my 

 friendship. But no other bird takes Phoebe's place 

 in my affections ; there is so much in him to like, 

 and he speaks for so much of the friendship of 

 nature. 



" Humble and inoffensive bird " he has been 

 called by one of our leading ornithologies because 

 he comes to my pig-pen ! Inoffensive ! this bird 

 with the cabbage butterfly in his beak ! The faint 

 and damning praise ! And humble ? There is not 



