Wreaths of Friendship Part 15

[Ill.u.s.tration: JULIA'S PET ROBIN.]

Little w.i.l.l.y did not say--at least he did not say in our language--that he should be happy to place himself awhile under his friend Julia's care. But he seemed very content, and soon made himself quite at home. Though he had perfect liberty to go just where he pleased, and would often venture out of the house, yet he evidently considered himself an inmate of Mr Cornish's family. Under the care especially of Miss Julia, he became so tame that she could take him in her lap and stroke his feathers. w.i.l.l.y was a great favorite in the family, after he had been there a day or two. No one did any thing for his wing. They did not understand setting birds' wings, when they were broken. Still, w.i.l.l.y got better in a very short time, without the a.s.sistance of a surgeon. A great many sick people, you know, need the care of a nurse more than that of a doctor. That was the case with w.i.l.l.y, it would seem. In less than three weeks his wing was entirely well, and he was able to take care of himself. So he warbled his adieu to the family under whose roof he had been so kindly treated, and flew away with the other robins who had been waiting for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JULIA FEEDING THE BIRDS.]

Julia is very kind, too, to the snow-birds in the winter. Many a time, when the snow has been deep, and these hungry birds have come to her father's door, I have seen her feeding them. One winter, I recollect, she had a flock of them that she could call to her, when she wanted to feed them, just as she could the chickens. The snow-bird is an interesting little creature; and though he has not a very sweet voice for singing, he was always a favorite with Julia, and I am not sure but I love the fellow as well as she does. Winter to me would be a great deal more gloomy, were it not for the Winter King, as Miss Gould calls this little bird.

Did you know reader, that the snow-bird is a very affectionate creature? It seems that it is so. Some years ago one of them flew into a house, where, finding itself quite welcome, it remained over night. By accident, however, it was killed in the morning, and one of the servants threw it into the yard. In the course of the day, one of the family witnessed a most affecting scene in connection with the dead body. Its mate was standing beside it, mourning its loss. It placed its beak below the head of its companion, raised it up, and again warbled its song of mourning. By and by it flew away, and returned with a grain or two of wheat, which it dropped before its dead partner. Then it fluttered its wings, and endeavored to call the attention of the dead bird to the food. Again it flew away, again it returned, and used the same efforts as before. At last, it took up a kernel of the wheat, and dropped it into the beak of the dead bird. This was repeated several times. Then the poor bereaved one sang in the same plaintive strain as before. But the scene was too affecting for the lady who witnessed it. She could bear the sight no longer, and turned away. I have loved the snow-bird more than ever since this story was told me, and so has my friend Julia.

Now I think of it, I have in one of the storerooms of my memory, a song about the snow-bird. It is rather simple and childish--possibly too much so for boys and girls of your age. However, as we are somewhat musical just now, after talking so much about birds, and are greatly in want of a song, I will sing this about Emily and the Snow-Bird, and you may join in the chorus, if you like.

SONG OF THE SNOW-BIRD.

I.

The ground was all cover'd with snow one day, And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-de, Chick-a-de-de, Chick-a-de-de, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-de.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SISTERS AND THE SNOW-BIRD]

II.

He had not been singing that tune very long, Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song.-- "O sister! look out of the window," said she; "Here's a dear little bird, singing chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

III.

"Poor fellow! he walks in the snow and the sleet, And has neither stockings nor shoes on his feet; I pity him so! how cold he must be!

And yet he keeps singing his chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

IV.

"If I were a barefooted snow-bird, I know I would not stay out in the cold and the snow.-- I wonder what makes him so full of his glee; He's all the time singing that chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

V.

"O mother! do get him some stockings and shoes, And a nice little frock, and a hat, if he choose; I wish he'd come into the parlor, and see How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-de."

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VI.

The bird had flown down for some pieces of bread, And heard every word little Emily said; "How queer I would look hi that dress!" thought he; And he laughed, as he warbled his chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VII.

"I'm grateful," he said, "for the wish you express, But I've no occasion for such a fine dress; I had rather remain with my limbs all free, Than to hobble about, singing chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VIII.

"There is ONE, my dear child, tho' I cannot tell who, Has clothed me already, and warm enough too-- Good morning! O, who are so happy as we?"-- And away he went, singing his chick-a-de-de.

Chick-a-de-de, &c.

EDGAR AND WILLIAM; OR HOW TO AVOID A QUARREL.

"Here! lend me your knife, Bill; I've left mine in the house," said Edgar Harris to his younger brother. He spoke in a rude voice, and his manner was imperative.

"No, I won't! Go and get your own knife," replied William, in a tone quite as ungracious as that in which the request, or rather command, had been made.

"I don't wish to go into the house. Give me your knife, I say. I only want it for a minute."

"I never lend my knife, nor give it, either," returned William. "Get your own."

"You are the most disobliging fellow I ever saw," retorted Edgar, angrily, rising up and going into the house to get his own knife. "Don't ever ask me for a favor, for I'll never grant it."

This very unbrotherly conversation took place just beneath the window near which Mr Harris, the father of the lads, was seated. He overheard it all, and was grieved, as may be supposed, that his sons should treat each other so unkindly. But he said nothing to them then, nor did he let them know that he heard the language that had pa.s.sed between them.

In a little while Edgar returned, and as he sat down in the place where he had been seated before, he said,

"No thanks to you for your old knife! Keep it to yourself, in welcome. I wouldn't use it now, if you were to give it to me."

"I'm glad you are so independent," retorted William. "I hope you will always be so."

And the boys fretted each other for some time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TWO BROTHERS AT PLAY.]

On the next day, Edgar was building a house with sticks, and William was rolling a hoop. By accident the hoop was turned from its right course, and broke down a part of Edgar's house. William was just going to say how sorry he was for the accident, and to offer to repair the damage that was done, when his brother, with his face red with pa.s.sion, cried out--

"Just see what you have done! If you don't clear out with your hoop, I'll call father. You did it on purpose."

"Do go and call him! I'll go with you," said William, in a sneering, tantalizing tone. "Come, come along now."

For a little while the boys stood and growled at each other like two ill-natured dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing his house, and William went to rolling his hoop again. The latter was strongly tempted to repeat, in earnest, what he had done at first by accident, by way of retaliation upon his brother for his spiteful manner toward him; but, being naturally of a good disposition, and forgiving in his temper, he soon forgot his bad feelings, and enjoyed his play as much as he had done before.

This little circ.u.mstance Mr Harris had also observed.

A day or two afterward, Edgar came to his father with a complaint against his brother.