DINGO. 



One windy Jul}- morning- fate threw 

 Dingo, a tiny, half-fledged, terrified 

 robin, together with fragments of a 

 broken nest, upon our piazza roof. We 

 climbed out of the window, laid the 

 gasping little creature in a box of cotton 

 and left him, hoping that the parent birds 

 might come to the rescue, but after the 

 destruction of their home in the elm tree 

 they apparently left the neighborhood. 



Presently Dingo recovered both his 

 composure and appetite, and announced 

 the latter fact with emphasis. Out we 

 clambered again, and, our larder not 

 being stocked with worms, proffered the 

 little foundling bread and milk. He re- 

 ceived it graciously, opening an appalling 

 yellow cavity, down which we were 

 obliged to poke the food before he would 

 condescend to swallow it. Having eaten 

 all we dared give him he sank back with 

 an air of satisfaction, glancing up at us 

 with a confiding twinkle of his black 

 eyes. 



That settled it : he became our tyrant, 

 we his dutiful slaves. At intervals of 

 fifteen or twenty minutes his piercing cry 

 was heard, and his appetite was in pro- 

 portion to the size of his throat. He 

 thrived, grew, and developed the proper 

 number of speckled feathers on a diet 

 which consisted chiefly of bread, milk 

 and berries. He was inordinately fond 

 of milk, though that infantile beverage 

 w r as certainly not on his native bill of 

 fare. When he rebelled against an ex- 

 clusively vegetarian menu we toiled 

 vigorously with the hoe to provide angle- 

 worms. As their every wriggle caused 

 us anguish we felt that kindness to ani- 

 mals could no further go, — not speaking 

 from the worms' point of view. I can 

 see Dingo now, balanced uncertainly on 

 the edge of his box, head tipped rakishly, 

 pin-feathers waving, and a fat, squirming 

 angleworm dangling from one corner oi 

 his bill. We drew the line at mincing 

 them. 



Our charge had various names be- 

 stowed upon him: "The Incubus," 

 "Lord Roberts," and "Bobs," but the 

 favorite was "Dingo," taken from Kip- 

 ling's story of "Dingo grinning like a 

 rat-trap, hungrier and hungrier." 



Dingo left the box in a few days and 

 was presented with a towel-rack for a 

 perch. The first time he mounted it he 

 promptly fell asleep and off the perch at 

 the same moment, ignominiously spend- 

 ing the night on the floor. The next time, 

 however, he was successful. He never 

 showed the least fear of us, but appar- 

 ently regarded a finger as especially de- 

 signed by Providence as a perch for 

 orphan robins, and, with his toes curled 

 tightly around it, was satisfied to be car- 

 ried all about the premises. 



His days were spent on the window- 

 sill in meditation, or in hopping about 

 the piazza roof. Later he discovered the 

 use of his wings and began to flutter 

 short distances. One evening that I par- 

 ticularly remember he made an excur- 

 sion to the edge of the roof and stood 

 gazing into the sunset. His wings looked 

 strangely like arms folded behind him, 

 the feathers waving about his head made 

 him seem ridiculously babyish, but his 

 whole attitude expressed ambition, and 

 he was evidently longing for the time 

 when he could venture out into the great 

 world. Altogether he was a pathetic lit- 

 tle bunch of feathers and hope. 



About this time I spent a night away 

 from home. On my return I found an 

 excited family waiting to tell a tale of 

 woe. At twilight the evening before 

 Dingo surprised them by raising his 

 wings and sailing off to the nearest tree. 

 As no blandishments could induce him to 

 descend they were forced to leave him 

 to his fate. In the small hours my friend 

 was awakened by a screech-owl in the 

 same tree. Horrid thought ! No doubt 

 it had come to devour our Dingo. She 

 sprang up and leaned out of the window, 

 crying, "Shoo ! Go away !" at the immi- 

 nent risk of arousing the neighborhood. 

 The owl remained undisturbed, and even 

 seemed to purr softly as though in en- 

 joyment of a particularly choice morsel. 

 My unhappy friend lay awake for some 

 time, a prey to wrath and grief. At 

 dawn, however, there on the sill sat 

 Dingo, a returned prodigal, loudly de- 

 manding the fatted worm. 



After this Dingo spent much of his 

 time in the trees, returning at intervals 



