pour out his desire in song, as he perched one morning on the branch of a budding hawthorn.

He sang his sweetest, his very best, and as the song was borne along on the bright morning air, and 25 then died away, he became aware of a tender little note, a faint twitter which came from a branch immediately beneath him. He looked down, and, lo and behold, there, half concealed by spreading boughs, was a bird like himself, another Blackbird! This stranger Blackbird was very attractive-looking, but its plumage was not quite so bright or black as his own. Its bill, too, was more brown than yellow, and the orange streaks round the eyes were of a greenish hue. But notwithstanding these slight differences, the bird which now hopped down on the grass, and answered his song by if possible a sweeter warble, was both handsome and winning. The Blackbird was delighted to have thus found so immediate a response to his petition, and he was very soon on the grass beside the interesting stranger. On nearer approach he found that this Blackbird had gentle eyes, and was indeed altogether very bewitching, so without any hesitation he proposed that they should build a nest together! His offer was shyly accepted, and then came the important question, where to build?

The Blackbird was anxious not to be too far from his little friends Willie and Alice. They had been so kind to him during the winter, that he would fain 26 see something of them still, and sing them his best songs, now that he had his voice back again. He had watched them the day before, as they trotted hand-in-hand along the home-meadow where the snowdrops and crocuses grew. They had pulled some of the white and yellow blossoms, and had then stood still to listen to the flute-like voice of an unseen minstrel. Hand-in-hand they listened; the little boy with his large brown eyes fixed on the tree from whence came the song, the little girl with her baby-face uplifted, and one pink finger held up as much as to say “Hush! hush!”

The song ended, the Blackbird flew out from the shelter of the thick fir-tree where he had been concealed, and winged his way across the meadow.

“Our Blackbird!” cried the little boy, exultingly. “Our Blackbird!”

“Dicky! dicky!” shouted the little girl, and then they ran home delighted.

Yes, this songster was their own particular Blackbird, there was no doubt about it; and did it not behove him to build his nest as near their home as he possibly could?

After a short consultation, the pair of Blackbirds set off on an exploring expedition. First of all they carefully examined the ivy which covered an old wall near the stables: but they did not consider the stems of the ivy were quite strong enough to support their nest. They then looked at some laurel-bushes. But no, these would not do. The position was too exposed, the branches were much too far apart, their nest would soon be discovered. Then a very compact little evergreen bush on the lawn in front of the old house caught their eyes. It was thick and well grown, every branch was covered, so that a nest could not be seen by the passers-by. Yes, it was the very place for them, there they might build in security, and at the same time watch their dear little friends as they went out and about each day. They carefully inspected each bough of the said bush, and then, having chosen a spot at the lower end of a branch where it joined the main stem, they set to work to build in right good earnest. Small twigs, the waifs and strays of last autumn, strewed the ground in a little wilderness hard by, and thither the Blackbirds repaired. Hour after hour both might be seen 28 flitting between the wood and their chosen bush, with twigs in their yellow beaks. These they neatly laid on the branch, and then twisted them in and out, and round and round each other, and then a little moss and a few soft fibres were added to the harder twigs. The whole fabric soon began to assume a round, nest-like appearance. It grew fair and shapely, and the exultant Blackbird paused to pour forth a “clear, mellow, bold song,” as he alighted for a moment on the summit of the Deodor. Then he and his gentle partner, feeling the “keen demands of appetite,” determined to go and refresh themselves with some food, and they repaired to a field not very far off.

There they found the Rook hopping along the freshly-turned furrows, eagerly picking up the grubs which had been brought to the surface by the plough-share. The repast did not look very inviting,––those small, gray grubs! But it was the Rook’s favourite food, and the farmers were not sorry that he and his feathered friends should make a meal of that same gray grub, for these insects sometimes destroy whole acres of grass. They bury themselves in the turf, and then it turns brown and dies. These grubs are 29 mischievous indeed,––after remaining for some time in the grub state, they change into cockchafers, and even then they are by no means agreeable visitors.

“Good morning, my friend,” said the polite old Rook, “this is a very pleasant change of food after the hard winter berries, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is,” replied the Blackbird, picking up a grub, “but I like better feeding near the hedgerows; however, this isn’t bad after a hard day’s work.”

“Oh, you are house building, are you?” said the Rook. “I hope you have chosen wisely, and got a good mate to work with you, one who is industrious and affectionate.”

“I think I have,” said the Blackbird, with a certain amount of proper pride; “but you shall judge for yourself,” he added, as he presented his young wife to the Rook. The Rook made a quaint sort of movement with his head, which, probably among birds, passed for a very grave and polite bow, and after looking at her for a few moments, he nodded his approval.

“We are all rather sad to-day,” said the Rook, after a few moments of silence; “we have just lost a very dear friend––indeed a cousin of mine.” The Blackbird 30 looked grave and sympathetic, and the Rook continued, “He started off yesterday evening to get some supper, and found his way to some grass-land which was being destroyed by these mischievous little grubs; he was busy pecking away at them, when all of a sudden we, who were in a tree hard by, heard a fearful noise, and saw a great deal of smoke. In another moment, as the smoke cleared away, we saw my poor cousin lying on the ground. He was quite dead; a young farmer had shot him with a terrible gun, thinking he was doing mischief; the stupid fellow little knew what good service my cousin was engaged upon in eating those grubs. This affair has made us all very sad indeed,” said the Rook, with a little extra huskiness in his voice: “poor fellow, he had just begun building his first nest, and his young widow is completely broken hearted.”

The Blackbird was very grieved for his friend’s trouble, and he felt rather uncomfortable besides, for it occurred to him that the same wretched man might very likely shoot him some evening, and then what would become of his little wife? He therefore prepared to fly off, but before doing so he said, “I hope we sha’n’t be 31 shot also, for these grubs are easier food to get at than the snails. I got hold of some snails this very morning, and my bill still aches with the trouble they gave me. I dropped them on the stones to break them, but one, and he was a fat fellow too, was so obstinate he would neither come out of his shell, nor could I crack it. So after ten minutes hard work I was obliged to leave the rascal. They are stubborn creatures, these snails,” said the Blackbird, with a