nd stood
patiently waiting and clicking time after time in trouble of _some_ kind
I knew, and, supposing it might be food, I threw out a plentiful supply
of soaked brown bread. At once the poor bird went to it, devouring
ravenously for her own needs, and then, filling her beak as full as it
would hold, she flew off with a supply for her young brood. Then came
thrushes, robins, sparrows, a whole bevy of feathered folk all doing the
same thing--carrying the provisions in every direction for unseen
families at starvation point, and I began to realize that the month of
continued sunshine in which we had rejoiced had brought great distress
upon the birds by drying up the lawns so that no worms could be found,
and, as it was early in the year, but few insects were to be had, so
that just when each pair of birds had a clamorous brood to provide for
the food supply had fallen short. Now I understood the pathos of the hen
blackbird's appeal; her dark eyes and note of distress were trying to
say to me, "I know you care for us; you seemed so kind last winter; when
we were without food you fed us and saved our lives; but now I am in far
deeper distress--my children are crying for food, the grass is dried up,
and the ground so hard that I cannot find a single worm, I am thin and
worn with hunger myself; do help me and my little ones, and we will sing
you sweet songs in return to cheer you when wintry days come back again.
Does she understand? I've said all this several times before, but I
thought I would make one last appeal before my children die. Yes; she
has left the room! I will wait. Ah! here it is, just the soft food that
will suit my little ones: how they _will_ rejoice and all want to be
fed at once. I hope my friend can understand that I am thanking her with
all my heart." Love has a universal language and can interpret through
varied signs, and thus I quite believe the mother bird's heart wished to
express itself.

Ever since that day I have been careful in nesting time to supply
suitable and varied food for the families of young birds in times of
drought, for it seems mournful to think of their dying from want, in the
season of flowers and green leaves, when nature is to us so attractive,
and rendered all the more so by their sweet songs.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

RAB, MINOR.

This familiar name recalls the delightful story of "Rab and his Friends"
in "Horae Subsicivae," with its naive description of