THE LITTLE LOVER. 37 



youngsters sometimes appeared on the stalks, and 

 looked very pert on their long legs with their 

 short tails cocked over their backs. 



In the afternoon I went again to see the little 

 family to which I had become so much attached 

 and which were now slipping away from me. 

 They had been led farther up the canyon, where, 

 at a turn in the dry bed of the stream, the thick 

 cover of weeds was still more protected by brush 

 and overhanging trees, and the whole thicket 

 was warmed by the afternoon sunshine. The old 

 birds were busily flying back and forth feeding 

 their invisible young. They scolded me as they 

 flew past, but kept right on with their work. 



There was little use trying to keep track of the 

 brood after that, and I thought I had given them 

 up quite philosophically, reflecting that it was 

 pleasant to leave them in such a sunny protected 

 place. Still, day after day in riding along the 

 line of sycamores on my way to other nests, it 

 gave me a pang of loneliness to pass the old de- 

 serted wren tree where I had spent so many happy 

 hours ; and though the sycamores were silent, I 

 could always hear and see the little lover singing 

 to his pretty mate. 



