120 WESTERN SERIES OF READERS. 



Once a hungry hunter, who had found bad luck 

 in place of game, came upon a colony of swallows, 

 and thought he would breakfast on swallow fry, 

 or stew, or pie. 



He shot a number, and thought they looked 

 good eating, lying limp in his hand, suggestive of 

 blackbird or sparrow or quail on toast. The 

 breakfast smelled all right, cooking in the camp- 

 skillet, and the hunter smacked his lips after the 

 manner of hunters when they are hungry. Alas! 

 at the first mouthful he turned the contents of 

 the frying-pan into the fire. The taste of the 

 flesh resembled that of the turkey-buzzard, as 

 near as his imagination could help him out. 

 What else could a person expect of a bird which 

 eats only insects? As well cook a crow or a blue 



jay- 



