Boys and girls, don't you think that is a pretty name? I came from the
warm south, where I went last winter, to tell you that Springtime is
nearly here.
When I sing, the buds and flowers and grass all begin to whisper to one
another, "Springtime is coming for we heard the Bluebird say so," and
then they peep out to see the warm sunshine. I perch beside them and
tell them of my long journey from the south and how I knew just when
to tell them to come out of their warm winter cradles. I am of the same
blue color as the violet that shows her pretty face when I sing, "Summer
is coming, and Springtime is here."
I do not like the cities for they are black and noisy and full of those
troublesome birds called English Sparrows. I take my pretty mate and
out in the beautiful country we find a home. We build a nest of twigs,
grass and hair, in a box that the farmer puts up for us near his barn.
Sometimes we build in a hole in some old tree and soon there are tiny
eggs in the nest. I sing to my mate and to the good people who own
the barn. I heard the farmer say one day, "Isn't it nice to hear the
Bluebird sing? He must be very happy." And I am, too, for by this time
there are four or five little ones in the nest.
Little Bluebirds are like little boys--they are always hungry. We work
hard to find enough for them to eat. We feed them nice fat worms and
bugs, and when their little wings are strong enough, we teach them how
to fly. Soon they are large enough to hunt their own food, and can take
care of themselves.
The summer passes, and when we feel the breath of winter we go south
again, for we do not like the cold.
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