more.

Only three times was my close watch for visiting hummingbirds rewarded,
and those were not at all conclusive. One morning, attracted by the
shimmering floor of jewel which Lake Champlain presented under the
morning sun, I sat looking out over my neighbor's cornfield, where
goldfinch babies were filling the air with their quaint little two-note
cries, absorbed in the lovely view, when suddenly I heard a whir of
wings and looked up to see a hummer flying about near the nest where
madam was sitting. It made two or three jerks, approaching within six
inches, and then darted away. Instantly she followed, but not as if in
pursuit. There were no cries. It seemed to me a friendly move, an
invitation and a response. Alert as she was, she must have seen the
stranger, as he--or she--hovered about, yet she did not resent it. In a
few minutes she returned and settled herself on her nest.

[Sidenote: _GREETING ME WITH CRIES._]

Soon I heard the familiar sound again, and a bird dashed past the
window, not going near the nest. My little dame in the apple-tree paid
no attention. An hour later a hummingbird appeared, perhaps the same
one, without flying near the apple-tree. Madam left her nest and they
had a chase, both passing out of sight. In neither case was there any
show of anger, cries, loud hum, or savage rushes, as I have seen when
hummingbirds are on the war-path. In neither case, also, could I see the
visiting bird plainly enough to determine the sex. It may have been the
missing spouse, but then, also, it may not have been.

Nor did it trouble me that I could not solve the mystery. Very early in
my study of birds I learned to be content to let many things remain
unknown, hoping that some future day would reveal them, and to enjoy
what Nature offers me to-day without mourning over things she _this
time_ withholds.

August was drawing to an end, and claims from the outer world grew
clamorous. It wrung my heart to abandon those babies before they could
fly, but relentlessly the days went by. The last one arrived, and I went
out for a farewell look at the little ones, now eighteen and nineteen
days old. They sat as usual side by side across the nest, and greeted me
with their sweet little cries. They were completely feathered, though
here and there one of the infantile hairs still stuck up between the
plumage, the backs a golden green, and the throat and breast snowy
white. They returned my gaze with wide, calm eyes, a