Stories of Birds | Page 8

The cheerful
blaze died out.
When he arose the white bear saw only a little pile of gray ashes. He
laughed so loudly that the boy awoke and snatched up his bow and
arrows.
But the white bear ran away to his cave, still growling laughingly. He
knew that no human being could live in that cruelly cold north country
without fire.
Now when the white bear was gone, the little gray robin hopped near.
Her chirp was quite sad. She, too, saw nothing but a little heap of ashes
as gray as her own feathers.
She hopped nearer. She scratched among the ashes with her cold little
claws. She looked eagerly at each cinder with her sharp little eyes. She
found--a tiny live coal.
It was only the tiniest spark! The least flake of the fast-falling snow
would put it out!
The little gray robin hovered over it that the cold wind might not reach
the spark. She fanned it softly with her wings for a long, long time.
The gray robin hovered so close that the coal touched her gray breast.
As she fanned it glowed larger and redder. Her breast was scorched
quite red, as the coal grew.

But the robin did not leave until a fine red flame blazed up.
Then the robin with her poor scorched red breast flew away. She flew
wearily, for she was very tired. Now and again she touched the ground.
And wherever the robin's red breast touched the earth a fire was kindled.
Soon the whole north country was blazing with tiny fires over which
the Eskimos might cook their food and dry their clothes.
The white bear crept far, far back into his cave. He growled fiercely.
He knew now that he could never have the north country to himself.

[1] Adapted from Flora J. Cook's "Nature Myths," by permission of A.
Flanigan, Chicago.

WHICH WAS THE WISER?[1]
One morning in the early spring a raven was sitting on one of the
branches of an old oak. He felt very ugly and cross, and could only say,
"Croak! Croak!"
Soon a little robin, who was looking for a place to build her nest, came,
with a merry song, into the same tree. "Good morning to you," she said
to the raven.
But the raven made no answer; he only looked at the clouds and
croaked something about the cold wind. "I said good morning to you,"
said the robin, hopping from branch to branch.
"You seem very merry this morning about nothing," croaked the raven.
"Why should I not be merry?" asked the robin. "Spring has come, and
everybody should be glad and happy."
"I am not happy," said the raven. "Don't you see those black clouds
above us? It is going to snow."

"Very well," answered the robin, "I shall keep on singing till it comes,
at any rate. A merry song will not make it any colder."
"You are very silly," croaked the raven.
The robin flew to another tree and kept on singing; but the raven sat
still and made himself very unhappy.
"The wind is so cold," he said. "It always blows the wrong way for
me."
Very soon the sun came out warm and bright, and the clouds went
away. But the raven was as sad as ever.
The grass began to spring up in the meadows. Green leaves and flowers
were seen in the woods. Birds and bees flew here and there in the glad
sunshine. The raven sat alone on the branch of the old oak.
"It is always too warm or too cold," said he. "To be sure it is quite
pleasant just now; but I know that the sun will soon shine hot enough to
burn one up. Then to-morrow it will be colder than ever before. I do not
see how any one can be so silly as to sing at such a time as this."
Just then the robin came back to the tree, carrying a straw in her mouth.
"Well, my friend," asked she, "where is your snow?"
"Don't say anything," croaked the raven. "It will snow all the harder for
this sunshine."
"And snow or shine," said the robin, "you will keep on croaking. For
my part, I shall look on the bright side of everything, and have a song
for every day in the year."
Which was the wiser, the raven or the robin?

[1] Permission of American Book Company.

ALL ABOUT THE ROBIN
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
One of the first birds to return in the spring--migrates north early in
March--sometimes remains during winter--stays north as late as
October or November.
Domestic--generally preferring to live near the home of man.
Song--though short and always the same is in tone wonderfully
expressive of happiness, love,