yarns. This rich bed of golden and crimson flowers is a handsome field of
tournament. What invisible circle sits round to adjudge the prize?

What secret does he bring me under those misty wings,--that busy birring
sound, like Neighbor Clark's spinning-wheel? Is he busy as well, this bit
of pure light and heat? Yes! he, too, has got a little home down in the
swamp over there,--that bit of a knot on the young oak-sapling. Last year
we found a nest (and brought it home) lined with the floss of
willow-catkin, stuck all over with lichens, deep enough to secure the two
pure round pearls from being thrown out, strongly fastened to the forked
branch,--a home so snug, so warm, so soft!--a home "contrived for fairy
needs."

Who but the fairies, or Mr. Fine-Ear himself, ever heard the tiny tap of
the young bird, when he breaks the imprisoning shell?

The mother-bird knows well the fine sound. Hours? days? no, weeks, she has
sat to hear at last that least wave of sound.

What! this tiny bit of restless motion sit there still? Minutes must be
long hours to her quick panting heart.

I will just whisper it in your ear, that the meek-looking mother-bird only
comes out between daylight and dark,--just like other busy mothers I have
known, who take a little run out after tea.

Can it be, that Mr. Ruby-Throat, my _preux chevalier_, keeps all the
sunshiny hours for himself, that he may enjoy to the full his own gay
flight?