THE HUMMING-BIRD 



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

 instead of paid for that trick." 



"But, mama," said Molly-cotton, "the boy that had it wasn't 

 the boy that hurt it, that's why I bought it; and," she added 

 with characteristic justice, "the boy that hurt it ran. He was 

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

 Really, it was an accident!" 



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

 its fate," I retorted hotly. "Men always have to try if they can 

 hit a thing, and 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 and held out the bird. "Well, 

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



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

 my wits. 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, and the bird 

 with all care transferred to it. 



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, and 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, but 



245 



