Stories of Birds | Page 7

ever are
beautiful at first. We had no feathers, and our mouths were so big and
yellow.
"We were always hungry, for we were growing very fast. Our mouths
flew open at every little noise. We thought every sound was the flutter
of our parents' wings. They always brought such fine food for us."
The robin pecked away at his breakfast for some time before he spoke
again. Then he again took up the story of his life.
"How well I remember being taught to fly," he said. "How our mother
coaxed us to try our wings. How timid and feeble we were One of my
sisters fell to the ground and a great gray cat caught her.

"Our wings were very weak then and our feathers were still short. I
then had no beautiful red breast. It was just a rusty looking white
spotted with black.
"My mother's breast was not so red as my father's. She was of a paler
colour and she sang much less than he. She was a very happy little
mother, however, and she chirped very sweetly to her babies.
"After we flew from the nest, and were able to look out for ourselves,
my mother laid four more greenish-blue eggs in the same nest. By and
bye four more young robins were chirping about in the garden.
"Quite late in the season my parents were again nesting. But it was
rather unfortunate that they did so. A great storm came up and a branch
broke from the tree and destroyed the four blue eggs.
"It was shortly after this mishap that the robins flew south for the
winter.
"My brother, who was always a brave, cheery fellow, thought he would
rather stay here. I wonder how he fared. I have not yet seen him."
"I have not seen him lately, but he was here during the winter," said
Phyllis. "I dare say you will find him soon."
"Well," said the robin, picking up the last grain of wheat, "I thank you,
Phyllis, for this fine breakfast.
"I will only say 'good morning.' I think you will see me again. Perhaps I
will show you where we build our nest."
"I am grateful to you," replied Phyllis. "You see the cherry-tree grows
beside Jack's window. You might have sung your morning song there."

THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST[1]
It was very cold in the north country. The ice was thick and the snow

was deep.
The seal and the white bear were happy. They liked the ice, the snow,
and the cutting north wind, for their fur was thick and warm.
One night the great white bear climbed to the top of an immense
iceberg. He looked far across the country. The fields of snow and the
beautiful northern lights made the night almost as light as day.
The white bear saw no living thing save a few fur-clad animals and a
little gray robin chirping cheerily as it picked away at an old bone.
Again the white bear looked down. Almost at the foot of the iceberg
crouched a hunter and his little son. Between the two a tiny fire was
blazing.
When the white bear saw the hunter and the boy guarding the fire he
growled terribly. He leaped across from one iceberg to another. He
went into his icy cave still growling.
"It is the only fire in the whole north country," growled the white bear
to himself. "If I could only put out that fire the land of ice and snow
would be mine.
"Neither the hunter nor the hunter's son could live, without fire. I will
watch my chance. Perhaps some day I shall be so lucky as to put the
fire out."
Now the Eskimo night is weeks long. All through the long night the
hunter kept the fire. All through the long night the white bear crouched
near and growled deeply.
At length the hunter fell ill. The brave little boy kept the fire burning.
He also cared for his sick father.
The white bear crept closer now, and growled more loudly.
He longed to jump on the fire with his wet feet and tramp it out. But he
dared not. The boy's bright eyes watched faithfully. The hunter's arrows

were deadly, and the boy's aim was true.
But by and bye the boy could endure the long watch no longer. His
head drooped. His eyes closed. He slept.
The white bear's growl sounded like a hideous laugh. The little gray
robin twittered loudly in warning. But the poor tired little fellow heard
neither the white bear's growl nor the gray robin's twitter.
Then the white bear ran swiftly to the fire. He tramped upon it with his
cold wet feet. He rolled upon it with his cold wet fur.