upon the edge of the nest while his par- 

 ents encouraged him to try his wings, 

 then his courage would fail him and he 

 would settle back, demanding more honey 

 or another spider before he venture'-! 

 forth again. The camera was brought 

 and several pictures were taken, but to 

 my great disappointment none of them 

 turned out well. Once, alarmed at the 

 nearness of the camera, the little fellow 

 assayed to fly but fell to the ground in a 

 fluttering heap of distress. I carefully 

 picked him up. O, such a wee, dainty, 

 trembling little object! Tenderly placing 

 him in the nest I held my hand over him 

 until he seemed to be asleep, and he re- 

 mained quiet for some time. But as the 

 afternoon waned, his ambition and 

 strength seemed to increase. He now 

 sat on the edge of the nest all of the 

 time and he fluttered his wings more 

 vigorously. I did not then know that 

 young birds almost invariably leave their 



nests towards night, or I would have 

 gone without eating, so desirous was I of 

 seeing that first real attempt at flight. 

 But when six o'clock came and the shad- 

 ows of the tall cliffs shut off the light 

 from the western sky, it seemed to me no 

 right-minded parents would allow their 

 offspring to venture forth into the great 

 world, and I left my dear protege perched 

 upon the edge of his tiny mansion, his 

 little bead-like eyes looking at me intel- 

 ligently, his little untried wings a-tremble 

 with their new-found life. I ate my meal 

 as quickly as I could, but alas for me! — 

 in those few moments the great instant 

 had come. When I returned the lovely 

 nest was empty ; no hummingbirds were 

 to be seen. Infinite space had claimed my 

 tiny companion ; he had gone to fill his 

 place in nature's great plan and I could 

 only claim as my own the empty nest 

 and pray for him a continuation of love 

 and protecting care. 



Edith Willis Linn. 



THE WILD GOOSE. 



I hear the voices call me and I go. 



Nor question of the way, nor why, nor where ; 



The tides of seasons bear me to and fro ; 



I am content as forth with them I fare. 



Against the wind I press my trailing wings ; 



I breast the drive of rain, the stab of sleet. 



And through the day and night my harsh cry rings 



Over the woodland waste, and city street. 



I journey far from mighty inland seas 

 To lakes and ponds, that lie in softer zone. 

 And in the warmth of Spring's inflowing breeze. 

 And in her vagrant storms, content I own. 



— Thomas Jefferson Marlin. 



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