A MEADOW CHRONICLE 95 



hunted about the spot whence they had 

 started, and in a moment found one of 

 their babies, who, when I picked him up, 

 never uttered a word, or rather note, but 

 sat in my hand and complacently stared 

 at me. He was a very uninteresting little 

 fellow, without a word for himself, and 

 entirely devoid of good looks. As his 

 parents seemed so worried for his safety, 

 I, after much difficulty, sat him on the 

 lowest limb of a young elm, and left him 

 crouched down, his toes buried in his 

 breast feathers, and gazing vaguely up 

 into the blue sky above. 



A pair of Baltimore orioles had also all 

 they could well attend to in a family of 

 six young ones. Baltimore children are 

 the worst cry-babies I know of; all day 

 long they kept up a continual squawking 

 for food. The untiring efforts of their 

 parents seemed to be of no avail, the more 

 they received the more they wanted, and I 

 must say I was glad when one morning 

 they had vanished from the neighborhood. 



The tall grass in the meadow I had 

 almost decided was not to be cut, but 

 early one morning a mowing machine ar- 

 rived, and the whole field was turned to 



