HO AN ISLAND GARDEN 



him off. I held him most tenderly in my closed 

 hand, very careful not to crush or even press his 

 tiny perishing body, and breathed into the shut 

 hollow of my palm upon him with a warm and 

 loving breath. I was so very busy, there were so 

 many things to be done that morning, I could not 

 stop to sit down and nurse him back to life. But 

 I held him safe, and as I went up and down the 

 garden paths gathering the rest of my flowers, I 

 breathed every moment into my hand upon him. 

 Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed ; he made no 

 sign of life. Alas, I thought, he is truly dead; 

 when all at once I felt the least little thrill pass 

 through the still, cold form, an answering thrill 

 of joy ran through me in response, and more 

 softly, closely, tenderly yet I sent my warm breath 

 to the tiny creature as I still went on with my 

 work. In a few minutes more I began to feel 

 the smallest fluttering pulse of life throbbing 

 faintly within him ; in yet a few moments more 

 he stirred and stretched his wings, comforting 

 himself in the genial heat. When at last I felt 

 him all alive, I took a small shallow basket of 

 yellow straw, very small and light, and in it put 

 a tuft of soft cotton wool, filled a tiny glass cup 

 with sugar and water, honey-thick, placed it in the 

 basket by the cotton, then gently laid the wee bird 

 on the warm fluff. His eyes were still closed, 

 but he moved his head slowly from side to side. 

 The sun had risen and was pouring floods of light 

 and heat into the garden. I carried the basket 

 out into the corner where the heavenly blue Lark- 

 spurs stood behind the snow-whiteness of the full 



