dressed and have their hair brushed and curled every morning.

First, there were Alice and Mary, bright-eyed, laughing little girls,
of seven and eight years; and then came stout little Jamie, and
Charlie; and finally little Puss, whose real name was Ellen, but who
was called Puss, and Pussy, and Birdie, and Toddlie, and any other
pet name that came to mind.

Now it used to happen, every morning, that the five little heads
would be peeping out of the window, together, into the flowery boughs
of the apple-tree; and the reason was this. A pair of robins had
built a very pretty, smooth-lined nest in a fork of the limb that
came directly under the window, and the building of this nest had
been superintended, day by day, by the five pairs of bright eyes of
these five children. The robins at first had been rather shy of this
inspection; but as they got better acquainted, they seemed to think
no more of the little curly heads in the window than of the pink
blossoms about them, or the daisies and buttercups at the foot of the
tree.

All the little hands were forward to help; some threw out flossy bits
of cotton,--for which, we grieve to say, Charlie had cut a hole in
the crib quilt,--and some threw out bits of thread and yarn, and
Allie ravelled out a considerable piece from one of her garters,
which she threw out as a contribution; and they exulted in seeing the
skill with which the little builders wove everything in. "Little
birds, little birds," they would say, "you shall be kept warm, for we
have given you cotton out of our crib quilt, and yarn out of our
stockings." Nay, so far did this generosity proceed, that Charlie
cut a flossy, golden curl from Toddlie's head and threw it out; and