A FOSTER BABY 
On our way home that night, I put the 
young chickadee in my lunch-box, cutting 
slits in the cover, and carried him back to 
his own parents in the other grove, where, 
having placed the box on its side in a tree, 
1 hid to watch. He called ; they answered 
and were there at once, trying to help 
him to get out. They pulled, and he pushed 
to loosen the bars. Failing in that, they 
fed him, though not so eagerly nor so fear- 
lessly as his foster parents had done. One 
stood on guard, while the other carried food 
to the little prisoner. All at once, without 
apparent cause or warning, they both flew 
away and ceased to call or notice him. In 
amazement 1 took the little fellow out of 
the box and placed him near them, but 
they merely flew farther away and seemed 
to watch curiously, with no idea of protect- 
ing or caring for him. I saw his little head 
droop and thought him sleepy. A moment 
later his wings quivered and he fell from 
the twig dead. Horrified, blaming myself 
for unconscious cruelty, I picked him up 
