know the bird's name. Did you ever think of trying to cut off one of your fingers with your jack-knife, to see if you could do it, or how it is made?"
"Why, no, uncle, it would hurt, and I couldn't put it on again, and it wouldn't do me any good anyway, for I could find out about it by asking a doctor, without hurting myself."
"Yes, that is right; and for the present you can learn enough about birds without shooting them yourself, and if you learn your lesson well you will never shoot a song-bird."
"May we see the book you are writing, Uncle Roy, and learn all about the birds out of it?"
"It is written in words too long and difficult for you to understand. Here is a page on the desk—see if you can read it."
Nat stood by the Doctor's chair, but the longer he looked at the page the more puzzled he became, and at last he said, "I think, if you please, I'd rather have a book with only the birds' plain American names." Then he spelled out slowly, "C-y-a-n-o-c-i-t-t-a c-r-i-s-t-a-t-a. Why, that's Latin, but it only means Blue Jay."
"Couldn't you write a little book for us, uncle—just a common little book, all in plain words?" pleaded Dodo. "There's plenty of paper here, and of course the know-how is all in your head; because Olive says you know about every bird that lives in our America—and then you need not put them quite all in our book."
"Bless your innocent heart! How many different kinds of birds do you think there are in 'our America,' my little Yankee?" "More than a hundred, I guess," said Dodo after a long pause.
"Nearly a thousand, my lady!"
"A thousand! I think we couldn't remember so many. Does Olive know about 'nearly a thousand'?"
"No, nor about a quarter of them, Dodo. There are a great many birds that are rare or curious, but are not very interesting to people like you and me," said Olive.
"Suppose you make us a little book about some of the very nicest American birds," put in Nat, who had been looking at the row of stuffed birds in one of the cases, and began to feel a real interest in knowing their names and something about them. "Oh, Uncle Roy! Here's a Robin. See! Dodo, see! I knew it in a minute; it's like meeting a fellow you know;" and Nat pranced about while the Doctor laughed as if he was well pleased.
"Now, children," said he, "I have an hour's more work this morning, and then we will talk over this bird matter. Here is a little blank book, and a pencil for each of you. Go down in the orchard, and when you find a bird, write in the book how it looks to you. So—size, color of head, throat, breast, back, tail, and wings—that will be enough for once; but try to remember, also, how it sings. You had better help them a bit to begin with, daughter," he continued, turning to Olive, who went as gladly as if she were only ten years old like Nat, instead of being seventeen, and nearly as tall as her father, with skirts that covered her boot tops.
CHAPTER III
A SPARROW SETTLES THE QUESTION
The apple trees were not yet in bloom in the orchard, but the cherries were tricked out in dazzling white, and the peaches were blushing as prettily as possible. On either side of the walk that led down through the garden, hyacinths, great mats of single white violets and bunches of yellow daffies were in flower, and as far as the children could see the fresh green orchard grass was gilded with dandelions.
"Isn't it lovely?" cried Dodo, "I want to pick everything." She began to fill her hands with dandelions. "Only I wish that mother was here"—and a little quaver shook the merry voice.
"She will come by and by, dear," said Olive. "You know your father had to go away on business, and you wouldn't like him to go all alone."
"Why do people have business?"
"To earn money, to be sure, to buy your pretty frocks and shoes, and give you plenty to eat."
"But House People are the only ones who must work for what they have—everything else takes what it wants."
"There is where you are very much mistaken, Miss Dodo. Everything works for its living in some way. Take, for example, the birds that you are going to study. They have to build their own houses, and feed their children, and travel about every year on their own particular business."
"Travel—do birds travel?" cried both children in the same breath. "Oh, where do they go, and what for?"
"Father will tell you about that. Now you must do what he said—each find a bird, and see if you can describe it. Suppose we sit on this great root. It belongs to the oldest tree in the orchard, and Grandmother Hunter used to play house up in the top of it when she was a little girl. Father told me he had a perch up there when he was a boy, so that he could watch the birds. Perhaps, if you are careful and really want to keep quiet and see the birds, he will have one fixed for you."
"How jolly!" said Nat. "Sh-h! I see a bird now—such a queer little thing—it's running round like a mouse. Oh! oh! it goes just as well upside down as any other way." And Nat pulled out his pencil and book and waited for the bird to come in sight again, which it was kind enough to do very soon.
"Size"—wrote Nat, struggling with his pencil, which would squeak, because he had foolishly put it in his mouth. "How big would you call it?"
"Little," said Dodo promptly.
"Kind of little, but not so very. I've seen smaller in the Museum," said Nat. "What would you call it, Olive?"
"I should call it rather a small bird, if I were not speaking exactly. But if you wish to be more particular you must try to guess its length in inches. When I was about your age father measured my right-hand middle finger and told me it was three inches long. Then he made two marks across it with violet ink, which takes a long time to wash off, so that my finger made a three-inch measure. I soon grew accustomed to look at a bird and then at my finger, from nail to knuckle, and then try to tell how many times longer the bird was from the point of his beak down over his back to the tip of his tail. Of course I made a great many mistakes and could seldom tell exactly, but it was a great help."
"How long is my finger?" asked Nat eagerly, spreading out a rather large hand for a boy of ten.
"About four inches."
"Then that bird is quite a little longer than that—five or six inches anyway." And he wrote, "Length, five or six inches."
"Ah, he has gone," wailed Dodo. "Oh, no, he hasn't. He has come round the tree again—he says squank, squank, squank, as if his voice was rusty. Is that his song, Cousin Olive?"
"No, he is only talking now."
"Talking? It seems to me that birds can do ever so many more things than I thought they possibly could."
"Black head," said Nat, as he continued writing; "sort of gray on top and white in front; his tail is black and white and rusty looking underneath, and—there, he has flown away! Do you think that will do, and will uncle know his name? Oh, I forgot, he says squank, goes head down, and picks things out of the tree bark." "Yes, that will do for a beginning, but father will tell you some simple names for the different parts of every bird, so that your descriptions need not confuse you. If every one
