YOUNG HOUSE MARTINS. 



NESTLINGS 



By J. WILLIAMSON 



Illustrated from Open-air Photographs by the Author 



OFTTDIES during the long winter 

 evenings have I taken np my photo- 

 graphs of bird hfe and gone over 

 the old excursions. These are pictures of 

 \\hich one never tires, they are redolent 

 of white and sparkhng sunshine and 

 gro\\ing woods and singing birds. 



The empty woods in winter make the 

 heart heavy with the thought of past 

 joys, and one is inchned to make odious 

 comparisons. I think of a deserted ball- 

 room, now dark and cold and empty, 

 where once fair women and lights 

 and sparkle of conversation illumined 

 the scene. The trees in the wood are 

 bare and uninviting, there is no luscious 

 thicknesses of undergrowth with mosaic 

 of colouring, no scented and warm air 

 nor the musical sounds of yore, and — 

 most unkindest cut of all — no merry 



voices of bird and bee nor sound of 

 growing things. The glorious pulsating 

 heart is verily asleep. But now it awakes 

 and the singing of birds is come. They are 

 singing love songs to their mates, and 

 after a while there is ushered into the 

 world the sweetest thing in Nature 

 — nestUngs, downy little dears that appeal 

 instincti\-ely to the human heart. When 

 a woman discovers a nest full of young 

 birds she just wants to hug the lot. A 

 man photographs them. 



Have you ever tried to hold a young 

 bird in your hand ? It is a real dehght to 

 feel their little plump bodies encased 

 as they are in fluff and feather. 



Never attempt to take an unfeathered 

 youngster out of its nest ; you are sure 

 to hurt it, they are nervous and deUcate 

 httle creatures. Even when feathered, it 



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