THE STORY OF A HOMER. 



99 



a young bird who had never been away 

 from the home loft, even for a short trial 

 flight, and, of course, had no bearings to 

 aid her. 



Dick had noticed her several times dur- 

 ing the day. He had even flown a little 

 with her, just for exercise; had noticed 

 that she looked a great deal like his moth- 

 er, and had 2 bands on her legs ; but he had 

 not been really interested in her until he 

 saw her give up, utterly disheartened and 

 worn out, and draw up close to a chimney, 

 where she sat homeless and alone. Then 

 all the chivalry in Dick's heart came in 

 play. He flew over where the _ stranger 

 timidly sat, and waltzed around in' ever de- 

 creasing circles, uttering his tenderest love 

 notes. The sun shone on his burnished 

 neck ; he spread his tail and walked for- 

 ward, stopping just far enough away to 

 show how gentle he could be, and how, 

 though not desiring in the least to be press- 

 ing, still he wished to lay his heart at the 

 feet of beauty. Never did bird tell such 

 an ardent tale of love. He stopped and 

 drew near the little stranger, and pre- 

 tended to smooth his feathers, though the 

 rascal knew that each was in exactly the 

 proper position. Finally the object of his 

 adoration walked up, stuck out her little 

 beak, and Dick got his first kiss. 



How easy, then, to fly over to the steeple 

 and show her his home. How he coaxed 

 and cooed while she preened the feathers 

 on his head and neck, gently closed his 

 eyes, ever and anon giving him a kiss, and 

 cuddling close to him in the old nest. 



Soon Dick became the busiest pigeon in 

 the city. No common straw was good 

 enough for little Dorothy's nest. Each 

 twig, each straw, each bit of hay must be 

 carefully shaken and investigated before 

 the young husband would fly to the steeple 

 with it ; for the new nest must be the best 

 one ever built there. 



One day little Dorothy showed him an 

 egg, and 2 days later another. Oh ! how 

 precious those eggs were, and how care- 

 fully the pair slipped on and off the nest. 

 How they patiently waited till incubation 

 should be over and the 2 little squeakers 

 be ready to be fed. 



One evening, just the day the eggs were 

 both hatched, Dick watched and waited, but 

 no little Dorothy came. Often he thought 

 he must leave the treasured young ones and 

 look for her, but he could not bear to go. 

 Finally, with a glad coo, Dorothy appeared 

 at the old slat. Hardly daring to rest on 

 it, dragging one useless leg behind her, she 

 fluttered as best she could to the nest. 

 While she had been hunting carefully for 

 just the kind of scraps to make the proper 

 food for the nestlings, a boy had shot her, 

 mangling one thigh. 



How tenderly poor Dick tried to help her, 



but it was of no avail. With one leg under 

 her and the other lying a useless thing by 

 the side of the nest, the little mother took 

 up the night's vigil. 



What matter the fever? What matter 

 the agony that shot up and down her whole 

 side, making her eyes look sunken and her 

 feathers ruffled with pain; all save those 

 plastered to her side with blood. Her lit- 

 tle nestlings were under her, and that was 

 enough. Of course Dick took up most of 

 the burden. Early in the morning and late 

 as he could see in the evening, he was out 

 hunting food for the young ; so that Dor- 

 othy might have little to do ; but he could 

 not feed her, and it was pitiful to see her 

 limping along, driven away by the stronger 

 birds, and gaining a more precarious living 

 than ever. 



The young grew fat, however, for Dick 

 cared for them. Dorothy's leg soon healed, 

 though it had to be held at an angle from 

 her body, and she still covered her little 

 ones at night. 



One night there was a sudden noise, a door 

 was pushed open and a blinding light filled 

 the belfry. The frightened pigeons knew 

 not which way to go. Two boys began to 

 catch them, stunning some with blows of 

 a stick or ruthlessly clutching others off 

 the nests. 



"Here's a cripple," said one as he swept 

 poor Dorothy off her little ones. 



"Never mind," said the other, "slap it 

 in the sack. They won't notice it." Dick 

 was jerked from a corner back of the nest, 

 where he had hidden to escape detection, 

 and in a few moments no pigeons were left 

 in the old steeple save those too young to 



The sacks of pigeons were put in a wagon 

 and jolted to a place where in turn the 

 birds were put into long boxes, and left 

 the remainder of the night. Till the next 

 afternoon, they stayed there without a drop 

 of water or a grain of food, when they 

 were taken to a long, low meadow, where 

 a lot of men with guns were gathered. 



Then Dick knew what it meant. The 

 birds had been caught for a shooting match. 

 In his great flights over the surrounding 

 country, he had seen this same thing be- 

 fore ; pigeons put into little traps, a word 

 given, the birds thrown into the air, only 

 to be cut down by the deadly shot of the 

 marksmen who stood at a certain distance 

 back at a line. 



But Dick, being a bird of more than or- 

 dinary intelligence, had noticed another 

 thing: that good strong birds which started 

 directly away from the crowd and on the 

 other side of the traps, and flew low, con- 

 fused the shooters and thus got safely 

 away. In fact, many a crippled bird that 

 had stopped at the steeple had told how it 

 was done. So Dick's heart throbbed with 



