dispose of it, for she stood near and watched its efforts with great
solicitude. The young bird struggled valiantly with the cicada, but
made no headway in swallowing it, when the mother took it from him and
flew to the sidewalk, and proceeded to break and bruise it more
thoroughly. Then she again placed it in his beak, and seemed to say,
"There, try it now," and sympathized so thoroughly with his efforts
that she repeated many of his motions and contortions. But the great
fly was unyielding, and, indeed, seemed ridiculously disproportioned to
the beak that held it. The young bird fluttered and fluttered, and
screamed, "I'm stuck, I'm stuck!" till the anxious parent again seized
the morsel and carried it to an iron railing, where she came down upon
it for the space of a minute with all the force and momentum her beak
could command. Then she offered it to her young a third time, but with
the same result as before, except that this time the bird dropped it;
but she reached the ground as soon as the cicada did, and taking it in
her beak flew some distance to a high board fence, where she sat
motionless for some moments. While pondering the problem how that fly
should be broken, the male bluebird approached her, and said very
plainly, and I thought rather curtly, "Give me that bug," but she
quickly resented his interference and flew farther away, where she sat
apparently quite discouraged when I last saw her.

The bluebird is a home bird, and I am never tired of recurring to him.
His coming or reappearance in the spring marks a new chapter in the
progress of the season; things are never quite the same after one has
heard that note. The past spring the males came about a week in advance
of the females. A fine male lingered about my grounds and orchard all
that time, apparently waiting the arrival of his mate. He called and
warbled every day, as if he felt sure she was within ear-shot and could
be hurried up. Now he warbled half-angrily or upbraidingly, then