194 IN BIRD LAND. 



breasted chats one spring, when their four pretty 

 bairns were stolen by some heartless buccaneer, you 

 would have thanked the Pleiades, Ursa Major, Ursa 

 Minor, and all your other lucky stars, that you were 

 a man or woman and not a bird. 



" Oh ! it would be so pleasant to fly and tilt in 

 the air, to dash from twig to twig, to make long 

 aerial voyages to foreign countries ! " Do I hear 

 you say that? Wait a moment. Have you ever 

 thought that even the long, bounding flight of the 

 swallows and swifts, accomplished apparently with- 

 out effort, may sometimes become a weariness to 

 the flesh, especially when insects are scarce and 

 their maws empty? Then, those long nocturnal 

 journeys that birds make during the migrating season 

 may often tax their strength to the utmost. Indeed, 

 if you will listen to their feeble chirping, as they 

 sweep overhead through the darkness, you will often 

 detect a note of fatigue running through it, as much 

 as to say, " Ah, I wish we were at our journey's 

 end ! " No, bird hfe is not all roseate. It has its 

 humdrum and drudgery, its wear and tear, its prose 

 as well as its poetry, its hard realism as well as its 

 romance. 



One of the tasks of bird life is the building of 

 nests. It is true, the birds always do this work with 

 a zest that makes it seem half play ; but, after spend- 

 ing a day in gathering material and weaving it into 

 the nest, scarcely taking time to stop for meals, I 

 have no doubt the little toilers are ready to retire 

 when bedtime comes. Have you ever watched these 



