72 WHEN NESTING IS OVER. 



rst heard the tender notes of "the darling of 

 children and bards " the bluebird baby. The 

 cry was almost constant; it was urgent and 

 clamorous beyond anything I ever heard from 

 "April's bird." I even doubted the author till 

 I saw him. The thin and worn looking mother 

 who had him in charge worked without ceasing, 

 while the open-mouthed infant lifted up his 

 voice and wept in a way so petulant and persis- 

 tent as to completely disguise its sweet bluebird 

 quality. Now this charming youngster, bearing 

 heaven's color on his wings, with speckled bib 

 and shoulder-cape, and honest, innocent eyes, 

 is a special favorite with me; I never before 

 saw a cry-baby in the family, and I did not lose 

 sight of him. Three or four days passed in 

 which the pair frequently came about, but with- 

 out the father or any other young ones. Had 

 there been an accident and were these the sur- 

 vivors ? Was the troublesome brawler a spoiled 

 "only child"? All questions were settled by 

 the appearance somewhat later of three other 

 young bluebirds who were not cry-babies. The 

 father had evidently shaken off the trammels of 

 domestic life, and "gone for his holiday" into 

 the grove, where his encounters with the pewees 

 kept up a little excitement for him. 



When the pitiful looking little dame had suc- 

 ceeded in shaking off her ne'er-do-well, the four 



