20 Bulletin 8 



from the wire to the trellis. Feminine curiosity, sympathy, — what 

 not? — draws her close to his prison bars. Each eyes the other in a 

 tenderly tentative way. I, the understudy, keep up the mono-dialogue 

 from the sheltering vines. The moment is tense with dramatic sig- 

 nificance. What next? Perhaps I am not saying the expected thing. 

 Perhaps there was a rustle among the leaves. Perhaps the instinct 

 of all wild things warns her. There is a sudden flirt of wings and she 

 is off. But at least, in actual bird language, I have wooed and won a 

 wildling. She will come again; though what I really said I wish I knew 

 as well as did Miss Merula. Later she came with a tender, pink spring 

 worm looped in her bill, and Eve-like, tempted Pitty Babe. Then, be- 

 lieve it, with unexpected heartlessness she coolly ate it herself before 

 his reproachful eyes while his mouth worked hungrily, sympathetically, 

 ludicrously. But mostly now she keeps to the lawn and garden-closes 

 trailing soberly in the wake of her handsome, portly spouse; grubbing 

 for worms — and "things" — and apparently quite forgetful of her earlier 

 romance. Only apparently, for in his momentary absences she makes 

 swift, surreptitious flights to her captive charmer. 



When it comes to a question of diet, Pitty Babe seems to be ac- 

 quiring a taste for civilized food. He drinks milk, eats berries, raisins, 

 fruit, oysters, broiled steak, warm rolls and ice cream, always refus- 

 ing sweets. 



If we insist on his taking something he dislikes, after his first 

 polite refusal he indignantly seizes it, throws it away as far as pos- 

 sible, then disciplines us with deliberate and vigorous pecks. 



Discarding his cannabalistic tendencies he uses angle worms for 

 footballs, throwing and kicking them about so vigorously that it is 

 incumbent upon us to walk a straight and narrow path with due dis- 

 cretion, or find ourselves doing an involuntary Tarantella at this 

 "Diet of Worms." 



He would prefer to take his food directly from our lips — on the 

 principle of trying it on the dog — and he fails to understand why we 

 draw the line at ants and angleworms! But above all things he loves 

 to eat soured milk with Grandma, perhaps because it is supposed to 

 make people live forever; and a pretty picture they make together. 



With head cocked on one side he waits till she gets busy with 

 the sugar, etcetera, and then sidles up and helps himself. 



Sometimes he edges around to her side of the saucer. She raps 

 him with the spoon. "Keep your own side of the dish!" says Grandma. 



