BIRDS' JUDGMENTS OF MEN. 111 



one of the windows of my room open. All at once I heard a sound 

 of wings, and perceived a redthroat, its bill still bordered with 

 the yellow characteristic of infancy, fluttering frightened across 

 the room. It had probably, in its first attempt at flight, met a 

 cat or a squirrel, and had taken refuge with me under the stress 

 of a panic-stricken terror. It was so frightened that, in trying to 

 get out, it did not see the open window, and beat obstinately 

 against the glass of those which were shut. I thought it best not 

 to interfere, lest I might frighten it still more ; hoping, besides, 

 that it would be more perspicacious when it had recovered its self- 

 possession. It soon desisted from its attempts and perched itself 

 on a corner of my bookcase. I watched it with the corners of my 

 eyes without moving ; I observed that its respiration gradually be- 

 came more regular, and its expression resumed its calm. It com- 

 pletely recovered itself in a few moments, but, instead of trying 

 to escape, it stayed where it was, uttering frequent light cries. 

 In response to these calls, another redthroat came in, adult and 

 experienced, evidently the father of our frightened one. He flew 

 rapidly round in my room, like one examining the resources and 

 means of the country ; then, having beaten his wings for a few 

 seconds before his offspring to encourage him to follow him, I 

 fancied, he went out alone with a jerk of his wings, without miss- 

 ing the window. Here, I thought, is a father who takes things 

 philosophically ; sure that his chick will be in no danger, he 

 plants it there and goes back to his business. But I judged too 

 hastily. In less than a minute the father came back, bringing 

 a caterpillar in his bill ; he gave it to the little one, then went 

 out, returned, and made twenty journeys for provisions, bringing 

 in all sorts of insects, to the great satisfaction of the young one, 

 which became quite contented and made itself well at home, erect- 

 ing its feathers, smoothing them, working itself into a ball, and 

 peeping. But its skill did not correspond with its appetite: it 

 dropped the insects on my books, not to my pleasure ; then there 

 came a spider of respectable size, when, having a horror of spiders 

 as unreasonable as unconquerable, and disliking the litter left by 

 the little bird on my books, I thought it was time to give these 

 creatures to understand that their familiarity was a little in excess 

 of the limits. I opened all the windows, and, shaking my hand- 

 kerchief, sent them to continue their feast in the woods. 



Among our birds are a pair of redstarts which faithfully re- 

 turn to us every April. We are old acquaintances, and a degree 

 of confidence is established between us above anything that can 

 be imagined. These birds habitually make their nests, within 

 reach of the hand, in a large ivy that grows on the wall near the 

 garden gate. Whether this situation had ceased to please them, 

 or some accident had happened to a first nest that we did not see, 



