Stories of Birds | Page 7

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. 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