24 OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
THE BLACK SHEEP. 
It was one of those bright mornings that some- 
times come in March, when the sun rises bright and 
clear and melts away the last drifts of snow that linger 
on the northern slopes. A warm breeze came from the 
south that caused people to throw up their windows 
and begin to dream of spring. 
Suddenly, from the top of a tall tree in the yard, 
there rang out the clear, bell-like ‘“‘to-loo-loo” of a com- 
pany of Blue Jays. Everybody came out and looked for 
the singers. People who were passing stopped, looked 
up, and passed on with a more cheerful step. It may 
have been because they were the first bird notes of the 
year, that they attracted so much attention. 
After hearing nothing but the chatter of English 
Sparrows for so many weeks, the first ringing notes of 
the Jays were welcome music; but who would stop to 
listen to them after the Bluebirds and Robins came ? 
For a few days they came about the yard in a 
flock, then all but one pair left. These birds built their 
nest in a pine tree near the house. The nest was a 
great clumsy affair of sticks, and dirt, and feathers. 
One day, going out to look at something in the 
yard, I saw what, at first, looked like a bunch of bluish 
white feathers on a dead branch, that was lying on the 
ground. Looking closely, I found it was a young Jay, 
just out of the nest. He sat there with his head drawn 
down, not moving a feather until I touched him; then 
