How I Mothered a Pair of Hummingbirds 



By P. GREGORY CARTLIDGE, Oregon City. Ore. 



THE trees, shrubs, and vines about my Oregon home grow in such pro- 

 fusion that many species of wild birds have chosen my garden for their 

 domain. This not only affords me the pleasure of studying them, but the 

 opportunity to protect them and otherwise to advance their welfare. 



One lovely afternoon in June, as I sat sewing at my open window, enjoying 

 the fragrance from the rose-garden and the contented twitter of fledglings, 

 suddenly the 'S.O.S.' of bird distress sounded from a nest near me in the honey- 

 suckle vine on the porch. I looked cautiously about, to see if some prowler 

 could be annoying, but saw none; hence I attributed the incessant squeaks 

 (I know of no better word for the noise) to baby-bird hunger and went to 

 another part of the house where the distressing cries were inaudible, to remain 

 until their impatient wants were satisfied. 



But it was not long until I returned to my delightful window and found 

 the cries even more nerve-racking than before. Something was wrong, but 

 what? I went out on the lawn and stood peering up at the nest, when sud- 

 denly a wee mite of a dark something tumbled to the ground near me. I tenderly 

 lifted it and held it in the palm of my hand. It was a tiny Hummingbird, no 

 larger than a bumblebee — just a wee little somber bit of life that I might 

 easily crush between my fingers. 



The warmth of my hand soothed but did not quiet it, and with a feeling of 

 helplessness I cHmbed to the nest to replace it, and there another little mite, 

 hardly as large nor as strong as the one that had fallen, but with squeaking 

 abilities second to none, peered up at me and opened its tiny beak so very wide 

 I knew it must be ravenously hungry. But where was the mother? What 

 could be keeping her away from her nestlings? 



It did not occur to me until some time later that perhaps I could feed the 

 birds — I was willing to attempt anything to stop the noise. Knowing that 

 they liked nectar, I thinned some honey with water and was ready to begin. 

 Never had I seen so small a beak before. I was not a little puzzled to know 

 how to feed them. After some strenuous moments spent in experimenting, 

 from which the birds emerged wet and sticky, I was on the verge of giving up 

 in despair, when I chanced to spy some toothpicks. They more nearly resembled 

 the mother's beak than anything I had yet tried, so I made a final attempt 

 with them. The result was pleasing indeed. 



What a feast that meal was ! Surely the birds had never been so hungry 

 before ! When they were both thoroughly satisfied I replaced them in the nest, 

 hoping the little mother had not returned in the meantime and, finding them 

 gone, needlessly suffered the pangs of bereaved motherhood. 



For awhile the birds were content, but not long. Then I did not know what 

 was best to do. The shadows were lengthening on the lawn, and the breeze 



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