love from their sitting mates in return, 

 I feel as though — as though I would 

 rather die than be compelled to return 

 to my unhappy home again." 



"Oh, you do?" sarcastically rejoined 

 Mrs. B. "That is of a piece with the 

 rest of your selfishness, Mr. Britisher, 

 I am sure. Die and leave me, the part- 

 ner of your bosom, to struggle through 

 the brooding season and afterward 

 bring up our large family the best I 

 may. Oh," breaking into tears, "I 

 wish I had never seen you, I really do." 



"Oh, yes, that has been the burden 

 of your song for days, Mrs. B. I'm 

 sure I have no reason to bless the hour 

 I first laid eyes on you. Why, as the 

 saying goes, Mrs. B., you threw your- 

 self at my head at our very first meet- 

 ing. And your precious mamma! How 

 she did chirp about her darling Jenny's 

 accomplishments and sweet amiability. 

 Bah, what a ninny I was, to be sure! 

 Oh, you needn't shriek and pluck the 

 feathers from your head. Truth burns 

 sometimes, I know, and — oh you are 

 going to faint. Well faint!" and with 

 an exclamation more forcible than po- 

 lite Mr. B. flew away out of sight and 

 sound of his weeping spouse. 



Wearily and sadly did Mrs. B. gaze 

 out of her humble home upon darken- 

 ing nature that evening. Many hours 

 had passed since the flight of Mr. B., 

 and the promptings of hunger, if noth- 

 ing else, caused her to gaze about, 

 wistfully hoping for his return. 

 The calls of other birds to their mates 

 filled the air, and lent an additional 

 mournfulness to her lonely situation. 



"How glad I shall be to see him," 

 she thought, her heart warming toward 

 him in his absence. "I'll be cheerful 

 and pretend to be contented after this, 

 for I should be very miserable with- 

 out him. I have been very foolish, and 

 given him cause for all the harsh things 

 he has said, perhaps. Oh, I do wish 

 he would come." 



Night came down, dark and lonely. 

 The voices and whirrings of her neigh- 

 bors' wings had long since given place 

 to stillness as one after another retired 

 for the night. The wind swayed the 

 branches of the tree in which she 

 nested, their groanings and the sharp 

 responses of the leaves filling the 



watcher's mind with gloomy forebod- 

 ings. 



"I am so frightened," she murmured, 

 "there is surely going to be a storm. 

 Oh, I wish I had listened to Mr. B. 

 and not insisted upon building our 

 home in the crotch of this tree. He 

 said it was not wise, and that we would 

 be much safer and snugger under the 

 eaves or in a hole in the wall or tree. 

 But, no, I said, if I was compelled to 

 stay at home every day and sit upon 

 the nest it should be situated where I 

 could look out and see my neighbors 

 as they flew about. That was the rea- 

 son I was determined it should not be 

 domed. I wanted to see and be seen. 

 Oh, how foolish I have been! What 

 shall I do? What shall I do? I 

 am afraid to leave the nest even for a 

 minute for fear the eggs will get cold. 

 Mr. B. would never forgive me, then, I 

 am sure. But to stay out here in the 

 storm, all alone. Oh, I shall die, I 

 know I shall." 



Morning broke with all nature, after 

 the rain, smiling and refreshed. Sleep 

 had not visited the eyelids of the for- 

 saken wife and with heavy eyes and 

 throbbing brain, she viewed the rising 

 dawn. 



"Alas," she sighed, as the whirr of 

 wings and happy chirps of her neigh- 

 bors struck upon her ears, "how can 

 people be joyous when aching hearts 

 and lives broken with misery lie at 

 their very thresholds? The songs and 

 gleeful voices of my neighbors fill me 

 with anger and despair. I hate the 

 world and everybody in it. I am cold 

 and wet and hungry. I even hate the 

 sun that has risen to usher in a new 

 day. 



"I must make an effort," she mur- 

 mured as the morning advanced and 

 Mr. B. did not return, "and get home 

 to mother. I am so weak I can 

 scarcely stand, much less fly. I am 

 burning with fever, and oh, how my 

 head throbs! Such trouble and sorrow 

 for one so young! I feel as though I 

 shall never smile again." 



She steadied herself upon the edge 

 of the nest and, turning, gazed wist- 

 fully and sadly upon the five tiny eggs, 

 which she now sorrowed to abandon. 



"I may return," she sighed, "in time 



199 



