dlings in the
nest were not ready to come out, and growing impatient I drew upon the
knowledge--or rather the ignorance--of the residents and heard some
surprising statements, which further observation, however, did not
confirm. That the mocking-bird baby lives for three weeks in the nest;
that part of that time the parents carry the nestlings about on their
backs; that when old enough the young are pushed out of their nest, and
always fall to the ground.

And the authors of these fables were grown-up, and had passed their
lives among the mocking-birds. I curbed my impatience, stayed another
week, and saw all the nestlings out, and the nest deserted.

Another charge also fell to the ground on careful observation. The
farmers complain--as farmers are apt to complain of their best friends,
the birds--that the mocking-bird eats strawberries. I set myself to
watch a fine patch full of ripe and tempting berries, several times when
no one was near. Many birds came about, mocking-birds, crows, kingbirds,
orchard orioles, and others. The mocking-birds ran down between the rows
of vines catching grasshoppers, the crows did the same service, walking
with dignity. The kingbirds chased flies, the orioles searched the fruit
trees for insects. One and all were working in the interest of the
strawberry grower. And while I watched, an hour or more at a time, not
even for dessert after filling their stomachs with insects, did one take
a berry, which I am sure they might be considered to have earned.

I know one lady--would there were more like her--who owns a garden on
Long Island, and when her gardener comes in and says something _must_
be done to prevent the birds destroying fruit, calmly says: "Certainly,
set out another row of plants. Let us have enough for the birds by all
means, and for ourselves too."

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NEST.

Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare, on the tree?

SIDNEY LANIER.

III.

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NEST.

"Superb and sole upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,"

as literally as though Lanier had sketched that particular bird, stood
the first free