THE FAMILIAR BIRDS 



fury of the elements made them turn to the old 

 cradle; and very human-like they were in so do- 

 ing. During the day they left its protecting arms, 

 never to return. 



One season a brood of house wrens on the corner 

 of the veranda all left the nest, amid much cackling 

 and chattering from both old and young, in a short 

 time early one June morning. One by one they 

 scrambled outside the box, then off into the honey- 

 suckle-vines, where they lingered an hour or more 

 before they tried their wings in short flights to 

 near-by bushes. 



I have seen young barn swallows cling to the 

 outside of their nest and beat their wings vigorously 

 a day or two before taking flight. The young of the 

 grouse and quail and of the small water and shore 

 birds run away from the nest the day they are 

 hatched; they trust to their legs long before their 

 wing-quills have sprouted. The young humming- 

 birds that I have seen leave the nest shot up into 

 the air as if a spring beneath them had been re- 

 leased. 



The current notion that the parent birds teach 

 the young to fly — that of set purpose they give 

 them lessons in flying — is entirely erroneous. The 

 young fly automatically when the time comes, as 

 truly so as the witch-hazel nut explodes, and the 

 pod of the jewel-weed goes off when the seeds are 

 ripe. The parent birds call to their young, and I have 



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