Little Julia Cornish, a young friend of mine, is very fond of birds. It is
no strange thing, I am aware, for children to love birds. Indeed, I do not
see how any body can help loving the dear little things, especially those
that fill the air with their music. But Julia was unusually fond of them,
and her fondness showed itself in a great many ways. She did not shut them
up in cages. But she was so kind to those that had their liberty, that many
of them became quite as tame as if they had always lived in a cage.
I must tell you about a robin that used to be a pet of hers. You know the
robin, do you not, reader? To my mind he is one of the dearest of all our
native songsters. His notes are among the first we hear in the spring. And
he is a very social and confiding creature. How often he selects a place
for his nest on some tree near the house! and when it is built, while his
partner is busy with her domestic duties, he will sing for hours together
his song of love and tenderness.
Julia resided in the country; and every year the robins built their nests
on the trees in her father's orchard, near the house. She fancied that the
robins came from the South to her door, year after year, and brought their
children with them. She was sure she could distinguish the voices of her
old friends, and she used to sit under the shade of the trees where they
had their nests, and talk to them kindly, and leave something good for them
to eat.
One year there were a pair of robins who made their nest on a tree, the
boughs of which hung over the house; and Julia could sit in her window and
see all that the little family were doing. She was delighted with such a
token of confidence, and she and the robins soon became very intimate. The
old ones frequently flew down from their nest, and alighted near the door,
when Julia would give them as much food as they wanted, and let them carry
some home to their children.
By and by, the young robins were old enough to leave their nests. That was
a great day with both parents and children, and all seemed about as merry
as they could be when the half-fledged little birds took their first
lessons in flying, though Julia laughed a good deal to see their
manoeuvres, and said their motions were awkward enough. However, they
learned to fly after a while, as well as their parents, though before they
left for the season, some cruel boy threw a stone at one of them and broke
his wing. Poor fellow! he suffered a great deal of pain, and his parents
and brothers and sisters were very sad about it. They seemed for a while
hardly to know what to do. Probably there were no surgeons among them, who
understood how to manage broken limbs. And they had a long talk
together--so Julia said--and finally hit upon this plan. Willy--that was
the name my friend gave to the lame bird--was to go into the house, and see
if something could not be done for him there.
Accordingly, one bright morning in June, almost as soon as breakfast was
over, the little invalid, attended by the rest of the family, came to the
door, where Julia was waiting to receive them--for she fed them regularly
every day--and then, after they had eaten what they wanted, instead of
flying away, as they were accustomed to do, little Willy hopped into the
kitchen, while the rest remained near the door. Julia thought that was
queer enough, and she ran and told her mother. "I wonder if I can coax the
little fellow to stay with me until his wing gets well," she said. "I wish
I could. Oh, I should dearly love to take care of him, and I am sure we can
make him well soon."
[Illustration: JULIA'S PET ROBIN.]
Little Willy did not say--at least he did not say in our language--that he
should be happy to place himself awhile under his friend Julia's care. But
he seemed very content, and soon made himself quite at home. Though he had
perfect liberty to go just where he pleased, and would often venture out of
the house, yet he evidently considered himself an inmate of Mr Cornish's
family. Under the care especially of Miss Julia, he became so tame that she
could take him in her lap and stroke his feathers. Willy was a great
favorite in the family, after he had been there a day or two. No one did
any thing for his wing. They did not understand setting birds' wings, when
they were broken. Still, Willy got better in a very short time, without the
assistance of a surgeon. A great many sick people, you know, need the care
of a nurse more than that of a doctor. That was the case with Willy, it
would seem. In less than three weeks his wing was entirely well, and he was
able to take care of himself. So he warbled his adieu to the family under
whose roof he had been so kindly treated, and flew away with the other
robins who had been waiting for him.
[Illustration: JULIA FEEDING THE BIRDS.]
Julia is very kind, too, to the snow-birds in the winter. Many a time, when
the snow has been deep, and these hungry birds have come to her father's
door, I have seen her feeding them. One winter, I recollect, she had a
flock of them that she could call to her, when she wanted to feed them,
just as she could the chickens. The snow-bird is an interesting little
creature; and though he has not a very sweet voice for singing, he was
always a favorite with Julia, and I am not sure but I love the fellow as
well as she does. Winter to me would be a great deal more gloomy, were it
not for the Winter King, as Miss Gould calls this little bird.
Did you know reader, that the snow-bird is a very affectionate creature? It
seems that it is so. Some years ago one of them flew into a house, where,
finding itself quite welcome, it remained over night. By accident, however,
it was killed in the morning, and one of the servants threw it into the
yard. In the course of the day, one of the family witnessed a most
affecting scene in connection with the dead body. Its mate was standing
beside it, mourning its loss. It placed its beak below the head of its
companion, raised it up, and again warbled its song of mourning. By and by
it flew away, and returned with a grain or two of wheat, which it dropped
before its dead partner. Then it fluttered its wings, and endeavored to
call the attention of the dead bird to the food. Again it flew away, again
it returned, and used the same efforts as before. At last, it took up a
kernel of the wheat, and dropped it into the beak of the dead bird. This
was repeated several times. Then the poor bereaved one sang in the same
plaintive strain as before. But the scene was too affecting for the lady
who witnessed it. She could bear the sight no longer, and turned away. I
have loved the snow-bird more than ever since this story was told me, and
so has my friend Julia.
Now I think of it, I have in one of the storerooms of my memory, a song
about the snow-bird. It is rather simple and childish--possibly too much so
for boys and girls of your age. However, as we are somewhat musical just
now, after talking so much about birds, and are greatly in want of a song,
I will sing this about Emily and the Snow-Bird, and you may join in the
chorus, if you like.