THE BABY FLIES. 119 



bravely facing the chickadee who happened to 

 alight in passing, even showing fight to the 

 wasps that buzzed about her castle in the air. 

 I shall always think she really knew me, and 

 had a not unfriendly feeling toward me, for 

 when I met her about the place, even away 

 from the nest, she frequently greeted me with 

 what one would not wish to be so disrespectful 

 as to call a squeaking twitter. 



As the end of the three weeks reported to be 

 necessary to fit baby hummers for life drew 

 near, I rarely left the rocky ledge for an hour 

 of daylight, so anxious was I to see a nestling 

 try his wings. The mother herself seemed to be 

 in a state of expectancy, and would often, after 

 feeding, linger about the little home, as if invit- 

 ing or expecting a youngster to come out to her. 

 At the last I could not stay in my bed in the 

 morning, but rushed out before sunrise, remem- 

 bering how momentous are the early morning 

 hours in the bird-world. But it was noon of the 

 twenty-first day of his life when the first baby 

 flew. He had just been fed, and he sat on the 

 edge of the nest beating his wings, when all at 

 once away he went, floating off like a bit of 

 thistledown, up and out of sight. Though ex- 

 pecting it and looking for it, I was greatly star- 

 tled when the moment came. 



The last act in the little drama was a pretty 



