MY HUMMING BIRDS. 
118 
they began to exhibit the usual restlessness of migratory 
birds, the sad question of parting had to be met. What we 
had already seen of them, convinced me conclusively that 
there must have been something of romance in the story that 
had so enchanted me in the respectable pages of the sage 
Port-folio, during my fanciful childhood, and which sc 
roundly asserted that the birds had been kept through two 
winters ! Now it is barely possible said conservatory may 
have had a due supply of spiders, for of one thing I am very 
sure — that no Humming Bird could have been kept alive 
without them any more than gold-fish could be kept alive in 
distilled water, in which all the animalculae, which consti- 
tute their natural food, had been destroyed. We came, at 
last, to the conclusion that it would be selfish and abomina- 
bly cruel of us to keep the delicate things with us in the 
blustering north, to die of pining for the scented bowers of 
their far sunny home. We let them out, and with many 
tears saw them dart away at once towards the south, as if 
they felt they had already tarried too long. 
We saw them but for an instant on the air, and our sweet 
pets were gone ! 
It took us a long time to reconcile ourselves to the loneli- 
ness in which they left us, but our consolation was, that next 
spring I should find another nest, and they should be scarlet 
throats this time, and we should know better how to take 
care of them now, as we knew better how to find them from 
experience. Such a lovely family as we were going to have ! 
We made a new and elegant house during the winter leisure, 
in anticipation of the new tenants that were to he ! In the 
meantime, as I alwaj^s had some half dozen different kinds 
of pets on hand, we found occupation and amusement in 
taking care of them and occasionally adding to the stock. 
This, together with the winter hunting, trapping, and 
books, gave swift wings to the hours for me. Winter broke 
up — spring came with its tender wild flowers and fickle 
smiles. Spring is the time for poetry — when one is yet in 
8 
