Stories of Birds Part 5

The gray robin hovered so close that the coal touched her gray breast.

As she fanned it glowed larger and redder. Her breast was scorched quite red, as the coal grew.

But the robin did not leave until a fine red flame blazed up.

Then the robin with her poor scorched red breast flew away. She flew wearily, for she was very tired. Now and again she touched the ground.

And wherever the robin's red breast touched the earth a fire was kindled. Soon the whole north country was blazing with tiny fires over which the Eskimos might cook their food and dry their clothes.

The white bear crept far, far back into his cave. He growled fiercely.

He knew now that he could never have the north country to himself.

[1] Adapted from Flora J. Cook's "Nature Myths," by permission of A.

Flanigan, Chicago.

WHICH WAS THE WISER?[1]

One morning in the early spring a raven was sitting on one of the branches of an old oak. He felt very ugly and cross, and could only say, "Croak! Croak!"

Soon a little robin, who was looking for a place to build her nest, came, with a merry song, into the same tree. "Good morning to you,"

she said to the raven.

But the raven made no answer; he only looked at the clouds and croaked something about the cold wind. "I said good morning to you," said the robin, hopping from branch to branch.

"You seem very merry this morning about nothing," croaked the raven.

"Why should I not be merry?" asked the robin. "Spring has come, and everybody should be glad and happy."

"I am not happy," said the raven. "Don't you see those black clouds above us? It is going to snow."

"Very well," answered the robin, "I shall keep on singing till it comes, at any rate. A merry song will not make it any colder."

"You are very silly," croaked the raven.

The robin flew to another tree and kept on singing; but the raven sat still and made himself very unhappy.

"The wind is so cold," he said. "It always blows the wrong way for me."

Very soon the sun came out warm and bright, and the clouds went away.

But the raven was as sad as ever.

The gra.s.s began to spring up in the meadows. Green leaves and flowers were seen in the woods. Birds and bees flew here and there in the glad sunshine. The raven sat alone on the branch of the old oak.

"It is always too warm or too cold," said he. "To be sure it is quite pleasant just now; but I know that the sun will soon shine hot enough to burn one up. Then to-morrow it will be colder than ever before. I do not see how any one can be so silly as to sing at such a time as this."

Just then the robin came back to the tree, carrying a straw in her mouth.

"Well, my friend," asked she, "where is your snow?"

"Don't say anything," croaked the raven. "It will snow all the harder for this sunshine."

"And snow or shine," said the robin, "you will keep on croaking. For my part, I shall look on the bright side of everything, and have a song for every day in the year."

Which was the wiser, the raven or the robin?

[1] Permission of American Book Company.

ALL ABOUT THE ROBIN

SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS

One of the first birds to return in the spring--migrates north early in March--sometimes remains during winter--stays north as late as October or November.

Domestic--generally preferring to live near the home of man.

Song--though short and always the same is in tone wonderfully expressive of happiness, love, anger, or fear, as the case may be.

Black head--wings and tail brown--touches of white on throat--entire breast a rusty red.--Female duller and paler in colouring, growing almost as bright as the male in the autumn.

Food--princ.i.p.ally insects and worms--does not disdain fruit, berries, cherries, etc., but prefers insect food--a ravenous eater.

Nest--outer layer composed of sticks, coa.r.s.e gra.s.ses, etc., seemingly rather carelessly arranged--on this the rather large round nest is woven with gra.s.ses--plastered with mud--lined with softer gra.s.ses.

Eggs--greenish blue--four in number--young have black spots on breast--generally two broods reared in a season--sometimes three.

THE SWALLOW

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Swallow]

UNDER THE EAVES

It was the tenth day of April. Phyllis knew the date because it chanced to be her birthday. She was just eight years old.

The sun shone very warm and bright, and the buds were growing big and red on the horse-chestnut-trees.

"I shall go down to the brook to look for p.u.s.s.y-willows this afternoon," said the little girl.