THE HUMMING-BIRD 



" ' Hurt with a sling-shot ! '" I cried. " He'd better be punished 

 instead of paid for that trick." 



"But, Mother," said Molly-Cotton, "the boy who had it 

 wasn't the boy who hurt it that's why I bought it; and," she 

 added with characteristic justice, "the boy who hurt it ran. He 

 was awful sorry. He just shot. He didn't think he could ever 

 hit it. Really, it was an accident!" 



"And that is the way almost every song-bird that is shot meets 

 its fate," I retorted angrily. "Men always must try if they can 

 hit a thing, then when a bird as brilliant as a butterfly or a flower 

 falls they are surprised and so sorry that it is dead- They only 

 wanted to see if they could hit it. It is the old excuse." 



Molly-Cotton advanced a step holding out the bird. "Well 

 Mother!" she said. "Aren't you going to do something?" 



"Take it into the conservatory," I answered, striving to 

 collect my senses. First aid to an injured Humming-bird! 

 What would it be? Of course its back was almost or quite 

 broken, from those wide-spread motionless wings, the heavy 

 breathing and the eyes protruding with pain. From a box of 

 abandoned nests a large one was selected with some fine twigs in 

 the bottom, to which the bird was transferred with care. 



Wounded people are always thirsty, so I proposed to give it a 

 drink of sweetened water. Molly-Cotton ran for a teaspoon 

 and the sugar, then we held a few drops of sweetened water to 

 the bird's bill. At the touch of it the little creature drank and 

 drank and ran its slender thread-like tongue over the bowl of the 

 spoon, searching for particles of sugar. Every hour that after- 

 noon it was given more. When Molly-Cotton came from school 

 she carried it honeysuckle and trumpet-creeper blooms, and 

 when either honey from the flowers or sweetened water was put 

 against its beak it ate and drank. 



I confidently expected that it would be dead by morning, 



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