ly nicely, but
never seemed to think of looking for food, and it was plain that the
busy little mother had no time to teach them. It was interesting to see
her deal with a moth which she found napping on a fence. She ran at
once to a crack or some convenient hole in the rough rail, thrust it in
and hammered it down. When it was quiet she snipped off the wings,
dragged it out, and beat it on the fence till it was fit for food, the
family meanwhile gathered around her, clinging closely to the fence, and
gently fluttering. These nuthatches were remarkably silent, but some
that I once saw living near the top of two or three tall pines were
quite noisy, and I spent much time trying to see what they were forever
complaining about. There always seemed to be some catastrophe impending
up in that sky parlor, but it never appeared to reach a climax.

Charming to watch is the bluebird nestling; cheery and gentle like the
parents, he seems to escape the period of helplessness that many birds
suffer from, perhaps because he is patient enough to stay in the nest
till his wings are ready to use. The mocking-bird baby has a far
different time. Victim of a devouring ambition that will not let him
rest till either legs or wings will bear him, he scrambles out upon his
native tree, stretches, plumes a little in a jerky, hurried way, and
then boldly launches out in the air--alas!--to come flop to the ground,
where he is an easy prey to boys and cats, both of whom are particularly
fond of young mocking-birds. These parents are wiser than the crow
blackbirds, for not a sound betrays the accident in the family, unless,
indeed, the little one is disturbed, when they make noise enough. They
keep out of sight, no doubt closely watching the straggler until he gets
away from people, for although he has proved that he cannot fly, the
young mocker is by no means discouraged; he trusts to his legs, and
usually at once starts off on a run "anywhere, anywhere, out (in) the
world." When far enough away for them to feel safe in doing so, the
parents come down and feed and comfort the wanderer, and it is a day or
two before his wings are of much use to him.

The most imperious young bird I know is the robin. He is perfectly sure
he has a right to attention, and he intends to have it. If he is
neglected too long and gets hungry, he calls loudly and impatiently,
jerking himself up with a ludicrous air of stamping his feet. Even when
he does condescend to g