34° Bird - Lore 



her mate came and sat beside the nest during the whole storm, sat in an un- 

 sheUered spot in the very teeth of the gale, bruised by the hailstones and wet 

 to the skin. After the storm was over and the sun came out again, he perched 

 in the tree, drying his feathers; she called to him; he tried to sing his little 

 roundelay, but only two notes came. The next morning his cold, lifeless body 

 lay beneath the fig tree. The rain and hail and cold had proved too much, 

 and his love and devotion to his mate had cost him his life. 



It took some time before the little bride realized that she was now a widow. 

 In the morning she began calling, insistently, impatiently, then anxiously, and 

 finally hopelessly. Whenever she saw a scarlet-capped Finch come to the 

 drinking bucket she would call to him and fly into the fig tree voicing her hunger 

 and sorrow. Many, many times during her days of incubating did she fly out 

 with her tale of hunger and grief, but never was there a response from the 

 passing males. A little food-shelf with canary seed and bread-crumbs was 

 hung near the nest, but only twice was she seen to eat anything. Every day 

 she grew weaker and more dejected. Could she hold out until the eggs were 

 hatched? 



Ten days had passed since she began incubating, and there seemed no hope 

 for those four eggs, for they had often been chilled, as the weather was un- 

 usually cold; and did not Coues say that eggs were usually kept at a tempera- 

 ture of loo degrees and hatched in about ten days? Fortunately she had not 

 read about it and stayed on her eggs until the thirteenth day, when one little 

 bird emerged from the shell; the next day two more came out to gladden the 

 little mother's heart, for she who was always so chatty, always twittering and 

 bubbling over with joy, had become sad and silent, and even when the little 

 birdlings came her broken heart could whisper no welcome, only feed them 

 and keep them warm. 



On the second day after the little ones were hatched she met another mate 

 on the fig tree by the water bucket, a somber, joyless mate. Perhaps he, too, 

 had suffered until his voice was silenced, or perhaps his sense of duty or his 

 bereavement impelled him to feed the widow and orphans. For two days he 

 silently fed both mother and babies, and then during the night something 

 happened, — for in the morning the nest was empty — no trace of birdlings or 

 mother. No doubt she, too, shared the same fate as her family, for she never 

 returned. The falling rose-leaves have filled the nest, and the rose-vine is 

 deserted. 



