WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 



was finished within. Because it was the daintiest piece of bird ar- 

 chitecture of my experience a picture was made of it even if it 

 was empty. 



But I have had three real experiences with Humming-birds. 

 The first, when one of them mistook the front window of the 

 cabin for a pool of water, and in trying to fly across it struck 

 the glass full force and fell stunned. I heard the blow, hastened 

 to pick up the bird, and while trying to think what could be done 

 for it I saw that it was reviving and soon it flew away. 



Whenever Molly-cotton enters the cabin alone, simultane- 

 ously with the setting of a foot on the threshold she always sings 

 out, "Mama!" One inflection she gives that call means, "Are 

 you at home?" Another, "May I go to Bertha's?" and yet a third, 

 which sends me flying at the first tone of it, means a heartbreak. 

 This day came the trouble call, sharply defined as the alarm-cry 

 of my Robin. Molly-cotton stood in the doorway with big ex- 

 cited eyes shining from a background of flushed cheeks and flying 

 hair. On her outstretched palm lay a ruby-throated Humming- 

 bird, both wings wide spread, but making no attempt to fly. 



"Doctor it!" she demanded. 



Is there anything harder for a mother than falling short of 

 what her child expects of her? I did not know a thing to do for 

 a sick Humming-bird, those daintiest creatures of nectar and sun- 

 shine, but as I looked into Molly-cotton's distressed and eager 

 face, I knew I could not tell her so. Of course I realized there 

 would come the inevitable hour when I would not be able to fur- 

 nish "balm for every wound," but I could not fail her just then, 

 so I temporized. 



"Where did you get it? Do you know what is the trouble 

 with it?" 



"I gave a boy my soda dime for it and it's hurt with a sling- 

 shot." 



244 



