THE TRUE STORY OF AN INDIGO. 



AS HE MIGHT TELL IT. 



I am a young Indigo bird. I have 

 brown feathers, cream white marks, no 

 tail to speak of as yet, and people say I 

 look like a sparrow. I do not think so 

 myself, and my mother says I am getting 

 to look more like my father every day. 

 Indeed, I should not like to belong to 

 those selfish English sparrows. The 

 vesper and field sparrows are quiet, pleas- 

 ant birds enough, but then to be an indigo 

 bunting is the finest thing in the world! 



What bird is as beautiful as my father ! 

 His lovely, shining, indigo-blue feathers 

 in the sunlight change to green or pea- 

 cock blue. On his chin is a black beard 

 which gives him a distinguished appear- 

 ance. When he sits upon the very tip-top 

 of a tall tree and sings his pretty song, 

 my mother thinks it the sweetest, softest 

 song in the world, for he says, "O so 

 sweet, so swee, swee, swee, sweet, sweet !" 



Since nesting time began he has not 

 had so much time to sing, for it takes 

 both parents to feed as, we eat so much ! 



My mother is a dear little bird mother, 

 not brilliant in color like my father, nor 

 does she sing so prettily; but to her 

 birdies her voice is very pleasant when 

 she cuddles us safe under her wings in 

 the nest. It is said that she, too, looks 

 like a sparrow, but indeed we should 

 never mistake any sparrow mother for 

 ours ! Upon her shoulders is a tinge of 

 blue, and wavy lines mark her throat and 

 the soft breast that has kept us warm. 



Our home has been in a leafy hollow 

 under a hill not far from Lake Chautau- 

 qua. A little water trickles through the 

 undergrowth, making it convenient for 

 our parents to take a drink. 



Both father and mother have been 

 doing their best to teach us all the things 

 little birds should know before they fly 

 away. We can fly a little now, and 

 during these summer days have been fed 

 and taught when to keep still and when 

 to peep. Ah, there is plenty to cat now! 

 How good these 1)ig fat grasshoppers do 

 taste ! 



Sometimes a great iron monster goes 

 thundering past, but our mother taught 

 us that it will not harm us, for it always 

 keeps to the same track. Sometimes a 

 large creature on hoofs pastures near us 

 and looks at us with great soft eyes 

 through the leaves ; but our parents only 

 scold a little and it quietly moves away, 

 grinding its heavy jaws. 



But yesterday wfe did have a fright ! 

 Our mother was flying back and forth 

 across the railroad, where grasshoppers 

 hide in the new-mown hay, with a 

 mouth full to us, sitting in the willow 

 bush and taking our turn. Suddenly my 

 father called "Chit ! chit !" in tones of 

 some excitement. We are stupid some- 

 times, so we talked, too, and asked our 

 mother what was the matter. '^Chee? 

 chee? chee?" we said. It was some time 

 before she could make us understand that 

 we must keep still. 



''Chit, chit!" they called, and flew 

 about in such distress that we knew it 

 must be something terrible, probably a 

 man. 



Then we heard voices. 



"Look out !" said a big man, as he held 

 up a barbed wire for the lady to crawl 

 under. Could they be coming after us? 

 We nestled close to the twigs and kept 

 as still as could be. I peeped at them as 

 they tram.ped along, the big man pushing 

 down the high grass and feeling his way 

 along for fear of the ditch, his companion 

 following in his footsteps. Nearer and 

 nearer they came. How indignant I felt 

 at first when the lady said, "Pshaw ! I 

 thought we had found something new; 

 they are only indigos ! See, there is the 

 male bird. How beautiful he is !" 



"The young birds are somewhere 

 here," she continued ; "I heard them." 

 Although they were so near, my sister 

 and I kept perfectly still as our parents 

 kept calling to us to do. They flew 

 about to attract the people's attention to 

 themselves. 



Then the c'entlcman climbed the bank 



\m 



