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 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.
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.
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, anger, or fear, as the case may be.
Black head—wings and tail brown—touches of white on throat—entire breast a rusty red.—Female duller and paler in colouring, growing almost as bright as the male in the autumn.
Food—principally insects and worms—does not disdain fruit, berries, cherries, etc., but prefers insect food—a ravenous eater.
Nest—outer layer composed of sticks, coarse grasses, etc., seemingly rather carelessly arranged—on this the rather large round nest is woven with grasses—plastered with mud—lined with softer grasses.
Eggs—greenish blue—four in number—young have black spots on breast—generally two broods reared in a season—sometimes three.
The SwallowThe Swallow
The SwallowThe Swallow
It was the tenth day of April. Phyllis knew the date because it chanced to be her birthday. She was just eight years old.
The sun shone very warm and bright, and the buds were growing big and red on the horse-chestnut-trees.
"I shall go down to the brook to look for pussy-willows this afternoon," said the little girl.
Phyllis was sitting in the window of the barn loft with the sun shining full upon her. All was very quiet and the little girl was half asleep.
Suddenly, with a flash of blue wings and a funny little twitter, a bird darted right across her face. Phyllis sat up straight, and, leaning out of the window, looked up at the eaves.
There she saw the merry twitterer, with several of his companions, who seemed very busy and very talkative.
They darted here and there, they skimmed through the air so swiftly that Phyllis could only catch a gleam of blue. They wheeled and circled and darted. All the time they twittered, twittered, twittered.
"What are they up to?" said Phyllis, leaning farther out and looking more closely.
For an instant one of the birds clung to the eaves and seemed to be pecking away at a bit of mud which was stuck to the eaves.
Phyllis noticed the deeply forked tail of the bird. Its back and wings and tail were steel blue. Its throat and chest were bright chestnut, becoming paler near the back of the body.
"Oh, I know you," laughed Phyllis. "I have no fear of frightening you, for you are a swallow.
"How does it happen that you are so fearless? You are scarcely more afraid of us than our chickens. Why do you build so near our homes? You are even more tame than the robin!"
The swallow twittered in a way which made Phyllis feel that he was laughing at her. He darted so near that had she been quick enough she might have caught him.
"We are not afraid of you!" laughed the swallow, darting close again and then whirling away.
"What a funny bird!" said Phyllis.
In a moment the bird was back with a bit of mud in his mouth. He plastered it up against the rest of the mud under the eaves. Then he flew again near Phyllis.
"I suppose there was a time," said the bird, "when all swallows built their nests on the sides and ledges of caves or cliffs. But that was hundreds of years ago, before men came and made barns with such comfortable places for building.
"To be sure there are swallows to this day who prefer the bank of a brook or the side of a cave for their nesting-place. But we barn swallows like the eaves best."
"You, too, are an early bird," said Phyllis. "Where did you spend the winter?"
There was a great twittering among the returning swallows just then and Phyllis was obliged to wait for a reply. Back came the bird after a moment.
"We went south last October," he said. "Late in September we gathered in great flocks in the marshes.
"For days we stayed there waiting for the entire company to gather. At length on one of the blue October days we flew southward.
"There were hundreds of birds in the flock. We looked like a small cloud, as we skimmed and darted through the air. As we flew, the flock was a half mile long.
"We spent the winter in South America. There are delicious insects there. But for all that we love the north country best.
"By and bye Mother Nature whispered to us. She said that it was nest-building time in the northland. Such a twittering and fluttering there was when this news came.
"That very afternoon we started north. Day after day we flew. We met other great flocks as we travelled, who joined us.
"Day after day we flew northward. We did not stop to eat, but caught our food on the wing.
"Now we lunched on moths and flies. Again we dined on grasshoppers. Any insect foolish enough to trust itself in the air at the time we passed served as food.
"We arrived here only a few days ago. It is not yet very warm, but here under the eaves on the sunny side of the barn it is quite comfortable.
"We are so busy with this nest-building and settling for the summer. You see we swallows do not live alone. There are always flocks of us together.
"We should be lonely if we lived only in pairs. That is the reason that we build a whole little village of nests under your eaves."
"You build very queer nests," said Phyllis. "They are neither like the robin's nor the chickadee's nests."
"No, indeed, no robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow. You see we make the soft mud from the brookside into little balls and carry it in our bills. With it we mix straws and grasses. This holds the clay together. When the outer clay wall is finished we line the nest with soft grasses and feathers."
"'No robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow'""'No robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow'"
"'No robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow'""'No robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow'"
"I notice there are a great many chicken feathers in the barnyard. I shall line my nest with the softest, fluffiest feathers that I can find there.
"By and bye my little mate will sit in the dear clay nest and over four or five or possibly six little eggs."
"I shall never be able to see them," sighed Phyllis. "They are up so high. Tell me about them."
"Oh, my eggs are beautiful," said the swallow. "They are white with just a little rose tint. They are spotted with fine dots of brown and purple, and are about three-quarters of an inch long.
"We shall probably have three broods of birdlings this summer. What a happy, happy time we shall have!"
All this time the swallow was darting and wheeling and circling about Phyllis in a most graceful manner.
"Are you never still?" asked Phyllis, at last. "I do not believe you even stop to eat."
"I do not," said the swallow, darting after a big blue fly. "I eat on the fly." And then he burst into a giggling twitter.
"I catch nearly all my food on the wing. No one can complain—as they do of the robin—of our destroying fruit.
"We do not care for fruit at all. I would rather have a dozen nice fat flies than all the cherries in the world!"
"Well," laughed Phyllis, "I'd rather have a dozen ripe cherries than all the flies in the world!"
"Tastes differ," twittered the swallow.
Once upon a time some Eskimo children were playing in the wet clay by the seashore. They were making tiny toy houses of the clay. These houses they fastened high on the face of the cliff.
The children chattered and laughed. They ran gaily to and fro in their happy play.
The people of the village heard their merry voices. Their busy mother paused with her long bone needle between her fingers. She looked up and smiled at her little ones.
"How happy my children are to-day!" she said, and she hummed a little tune to herself.
"They are very wise children!" said a neighbour. "They say so many wonderful things. Indeed, they seem to know more of some things than even the wise men of the village!"
"Yes, they are quite wonderful," said the mother. "I sometimes listen to their chatter and watch their nimble little fingers, and I wonder who taught them all they know."
"Oh," said another woman, "they do not seem so extraordinary to me. In fact, they look to me like little birds, flitting about in their dark dresses."
"They do look like birds!" said the mother, gazing at the children.
"I do believe they are birds," said the neighbour.
"But the voices are my children's voices," said the mother, looking again in wonder.
"And they are still building tiny clay houses on the cliffs!" said the other woman.
"But those toy clay houses are birds' nests," said the neighbour, "and those little figures darting back and forth are no longer children. They have changed to birds!"
"Yes," said the mother, peering from under her hand. "Yes, those are birds building their funny clay nests on the cliffs yonder.
"But the birds have the happy twittering voices of my children. You were right. They were wonderful children!
"Ah, well, my only wish is that they may remain near us. They will cheer us and keep us from becoming lonely!"
"Surely that is a reasonable wish—since they are your own little ones," said the neighbour. "I, too, hope that the little birds will remain near our village!"
And indeed the mother's wish was granted. Even to this day the little swallows do not fear man.
In fact, they still choose to build their nests near the camps of the people. They still fix their tiny toy houses on the faces of the sea cliffs.
Comes north about first or second week in April. Remains until late September or October—builds and travels in flocks or companies—winters in South or Central America.
Song—a constant twitter.
Head and upper parts except forehead steel blue—tail feathers marked with white—forehead and throat clear chestnut colour—chest and lower body paler chestnut.
Food—chiefly insects caught while on the wing.
Nest—built chiefly of mud—chooses under eaves or cavelike places for building—mud mixed with grasses and (one authority also asserts) a sticky saliva from the bird's mouth.
Eggs—white, tinted a delicate rose, and speckled finely with brown and purple.—Two or three broods in a season.
The HawkThe Hawk
The HawkThe Hawk
Had not the old hen been such a watchful mother she would never have been able to care for such a big, fluffy family.
Had not Phyllis been such a wide-awake little girl, she would have never heard and seen all that I am about to tell you.
Mother Speckle was scratching patiently in the barnyard. Now and again she gave a loud call and her ten little ones ran wildly for the bug or worm which their mother had found for them.
Phyllis was just coming into the barnyard with a cup of meal for Mother Speckle's family, when a strange cry from the old hen startled her.
Phyllis looked and saw every chick running as fast as its little legs could carry it to the hovering mother wings. Soon every chicken baby was hidden from sight and the chicken mother was clucking less loudly.
"What can be the matter?" cried Phyllis, and then looking up she saw a hawk circling in the air above.
She snatched off her hat and waved it wildly at the hawk. At the same time she shouted as fiercely as she could.
The hawk soared calmly in the air, rising ever higher and higher. The mother hen, calling softly to her babies, led the little ones to the protecting shelter of some low bushes. Then Phyllis sprinkled the meal and soon the chicken hawk was quite forgotten by Mother Speckle and her brood.
But Phyllis still watched eagerly for the hawk. She feared that he would return. But she could now see nothing of him.
On the fence post, not far away, sat a big black raven croaking gravely to himself.
"You are not a lovely bird either," said the little girl, but the raven did not hear her.
When she had crept up very close to the post on which the raven sat, Phyllis again saw the hawk sailing in wide circles nearer and nearer.
"Caw! Caw!" cried the raven, rising in the air, high above the barn. "I, too, can sail about in circles! Caw! Caw! Caw!"
The hawk said nothing, but quietly settled on the fence post. The raven still circled in the air, but ever nearer.
The hawk looked up. The raven wagged his head solemnly and uttered his sad, harsh cry. He shook out his black feathers and sat down again on the post.
"I am called the bird of ill omen," said the raven. "Some people think that I bring bad luck. Others think I eat too much of their corn. No one likes me. No one thinks me beautiful.
"Yet if you will look at my black coat you will see how glossy it is. My back fairly gleams in the sunlight. Sometimes I catch gleams of purple and green on my wings. See how soft and loose are the feathers about my throat. They make a fringe about my neck of which I am somewhat proud.
"I do not harm people, and I surely should not be blamed for my appetite. To be sure, I do eat corn and grain. I also eat grubs, worms, field mice, in fact anything which comes in my way.
"I have a home up in the top of the cedar-tree. My nest is round and firm. It is woven of sticks and grasses and lined with wool which I myself pick from the sheep's back.
"We reline the old nest and repair it beautifully every housecleaning time.
"My babies are good children, but they do not in fact look much like me. Perhaps you might think them better looking than their parents. They are black and white.
"Their mother says that the raven babies will outgrow the white feathers soon. She declares that she and I had once as many white feathers as our babies. It seems hard to believe, but perhaps she is right.
"At any rate, they are my children and I do the best I can for them. To me they are very dear, but I fear they will go through life as unloved as I! Caw! Caw! Caw!"
The chicken-hawk ruffled his brown feathers carelessly. He drew in his breath, making a whistling noise which to Phyllis, hiding so quietly below, sounded quite like escaping steam.
"People do not like me either," said the hawk, shrugging his shoulders. "But for all that I shall not sit and mourn.
"I know that my feathers are handsome. I know that I am a good husband and father. I know that I can sail about in the air as gracefully as any bird in the world.
"I sometimes eat insects, but I wonder, Mr. Raven, at your fondness for corn and grain. You should try some of these small birds which are flying about."
"I fear—" began the raven.
"Fear?" cried the hawk, striking out with his strong curved claws. "I do not know what fear is! Look at my short curved bill! Look at my sharp claws! Look at my long wings, which can carry me so swiftly and so far!
"There is scarcely a bird of the air which does not fear me. They skim out of sight at my approach.
"You should see me pounce upon young ducks. It is great fun. Yesterday I was soaring above the pond, when I saw a whole family of young ducks out for their first swim. Without a sound I dropped down, seized one, and bore it off in my claws. I sat in the tree-top to eat it. It was very tender, but also very small. I decided to have another. This time the young ducks saw me. They dived head first into the water.
"I laughed to myself. I knew that they would soon come up. When in half a minute one appeared, I was quick enough to catch him.
"Later I carried a small chicken home to my nest in the big oak on the hill yonder. My nest is a very simple affair,—just a few crooked sticks. The lining is of leaves and a few pieces of loose bark which we picked up.
"Come and see me sometime, Mr. Raven. I will show my babies to you. They are wonderful birdlings with bright yellow eyes and bluish bills.
"Just now I must be off. I see Mrs. Speckle has ventured out from the bushes again and that little girl with the flapping hat—"
The little girl and the "flapping hat" sprang up from the fence-corner with such a shout that the chicken-hawk circled away into the air and did not return that day.
The raven flew away, crying sadly, "Caw! Caw! Caw!" Mother Speckle went on quietly catching bugs for her downy babies.
During the short Greenland summer the Eskimos live along the seacoast. They put up their strange skin huts and hunt and fish and make merry through the season when the sun shines at midnight.
Now in places along the Greenland coast there are steep high cliffs. Here the birds which fly farther north in summer make their nests.
Often, as the Eskimo sits by his campfire, he hears the half-angry, half-sad cry of "Kea! Kea! Kea!" Looking up then, he often sees a lonely hawk sitting on the highest, most desolate cliff.
The Eskimo father laughs when he hears this cry and sees the lonely bird on the cliff top. Then the little Eskimo children creep nearer to their father with certainty that a new story is in store for them.
"Tell us the story of the hawk!" the Eskimo children cry eagerly.
This then is the story which the Eskimo father tells to his little ones "in their funny furry clothes."
"Long, long ago in a tiny Eskimo village, there lived a strange-looking old woman. Her neck was so short that she really looked as though she had no neck at all and as though her head was set upon her shoulders.
"People laughed when they saw the funny-looking old woman. Some were so unkind as to make fun of her strange appearance.
"This unkindness made the old woman very unhappy.
"By and bye the children of the village went every day to the hut of the old woman to play.
"They teased and tormented her. If she raised the bearskin curtain at the doorway and spoke to them they did not heed her.
"'Short neck! Short neck!' the rude children shouted. Then they stood and laughed at her.
"So it came that the poor old woman grew more and more unhappy. To escape her tormentors she often climbed to the cliff tops and sat on the edges of high rocks where it was difficult to follow.
"Here, safe and quiet, she would sit for hours. Sometimes in her loneliness she raised her arms above her head and cried aloud.
"The people of the tiny Eskimo village often saw the lonely figure on the cliffs. They noticed that the old woman stayed less and less in her little snow hut in the village.
"Then one morning an Eskimo child, looking up, thought she saw the old woman sitting as usual on the rocks. But the child's brother said that he saw only a strange bird with a very short neck.
"At that moment the bird raised its wings and flapped them above its head.
"'Kea! Kea! Kea!' cried the strange new bird. 'Kea! Kea! Kea! who was it called me short neck?'
"'Ah,' said the children's father, looking up from his fishing-nets, 'I think you both were right.'"
Long, long ago there were but few Indians on the earth. The world was not as it is now. The earth people did not understand things as they now understand them.
It therefore happened that a beautiful Indian prince came to live with the earth people.
In his hand he carried a plume stick. It was a magic wand and was covered with feathers of beautiful colours.
There were yellow feathers. There were red feathers. There were blue-green feathers. There were black and white and gray feathers.
Fastened to this magic wand were also many strange shells and charms which the earth children did not understand and which the strange prince did not explain fully.
"What is this strange plume stick?" asked the earth children.
"It is the magic wand which tests the hearts of earth children," was the reply.
The earth children wondered, but they did not understand.
"Ah, but show us what you mean!" they cried, eagerly.
"Look!" replied the strange prince.
Then amid the plumes and charms of the magic wand there appeared four round things.
"They are eggs!" cried the earth children. "Two are blue like the sky. Two are red-brown like the dust of our own pleasant earth!"
Then the earth children asked many questions which the strange prince tried patiently to explain.
"Now," said the strange prince, "choose whichever eggs you will. By and bye they will hatch. From them will come birds such as you never before have seen. From each pair of eggs will come a pair of birds."
"You who choose the blue eggs shall follow the birds which come from the blue shells. You and your children and your children's children shall dwell in the land in which these birds nest.
"You who choose the red-brown eggs shall follow the birds which come from the red-brown shells. You and your children and your children's children shall dwell in the land in which these birds nest!"
"But which shall we choose?" cried the eager earth children.
"Nay," said the strange prince, "that I may not tell. But this much you may know:
"From one pair of eggs shall come forth beautiful birds. Their feathers shall be coloured, like the leaves and fruits of summer. They shall nest in the land of everlasting summer-time and plenty.
"They who choose those eggs will follow these birds to the beautiful country of summer-time. The fruits will ripen daily and fall into the hands of the lucky earth children. Their food will come to them without labour and they shall know neither hunger nor cold."
"And what will happen if we choose the other pair of eggs?"
The strange prince shook his head half sadly and smiled on the earth children.
"From the other pair of eggs," he said, "shall come forth birds with black feathers, piebald with white. This pair will nest in a land where you may gain food by labour only.
"Those who follow this pair of birds shall struggle summer and winter. By long days of toil they shall provide food. By long nights of watchfulness they shall keep warmth within their homes."
Then the strange prince ceased speaking. The earth children looked at each other and forgot to speak. Each looked into the eyes of the other and asked a question. Each wished to follow the birds which would lead them to the land of everlasting summer-time and idleness and plenty.
"Which eggs do you choose?" asked the strange prince.
"The blue—the blue!" cried the earth children. Then those who were strongest and quickest pushed forward.
They fought for the blue eggs, and getting them hurried away with gladness.
They buried the blue eggs in the soft loam on the sunny side of the cliff. They sat down to watch when the young birds should hatch.
Now there remained those weaker earth children who had been pushed aside. For them there was no choice. The strange prince gave into their hand the red-brown eggs.
The red-brown eggs were placed amid the soft green grasses by the riverside. The earth children into whose care they were given sat also by the riverside and waited.
Sometimes, as they waited for the hatching of the red-brown eggs, they looked up to the place in the cliff where the stronger ones watched the beautiful blue eggs.
Then the weaker ones sighed and turned to the ugly red-brown eggs amid the grasses.
By and bye, as those on the cliff waited, they heard faint tappings inside the blue shells.
"Ah," they said, "the birds will come soon now. They will lead us to the land of summer-time."
When at length the shells burst and the young birds came out, they looked much as other birds look. They had large mouths and panting sides and tiny featherless bodies. Soon the pin-feathers appeared.
"See!" cried the watchers, "now the beautiful plumage is starting!"
And those by the riverside, hearing the cry, looked up, and looking up they sighed. The red-brown eggs also were cracking open and the young birds coming out of the shells. Soon the earth children must follow their bird leaders. They fed and tended the young birds for still a few days.
Then one morning there were sighs and discontent on the cliff. For the birds which came from the blue shells were feathered and ready for flight. Their colours were black and white! So also is all the bare earth and the new-fallen snow!
It was a pair of ravens, which the stronger earth children followed to the country where winter follows summer and where men work for food. As the earth children laboured, the ravens taunted them with hoarse, laughing cries.
Now those other earth children who watched the red-brown eggs stood up by the riverside and smiled.
From the red-brown eggs had come birds of gorgeous plumage. On the breath of a sweet-scented breeze they were wafted far to southward—to the summer land. And those earth children who followed the beautiful birds still live easily in the land of everlasting summer-time.
Voice—sharp, harsh, discordant cries—queer "whistling" noises.
Upper parts brownish black mixed with white—throat and under tail coverts white—other under parts having darker markings.
Bill—short, curved, and very sharp.
Claws—strong, curved, and very sharp,—middle toe longest.
Wings—long and pointed—made for rapid flight and long journeys.
Female larger than male.
Food—other smaller birds of the air—small ducks and chickens—occasionally larger insects, snakes, etc.
Nest in the fork of a tree—made of crooked sticks and lined with leaves, bark, etc.
Eggs—two to four in number, bluish white, thickly speckled with brown.
Iris in young bird's eyes yellow—turning to reddish brown with maturity.
Three times the size of robin.
Does not migrate, but is usually resident in the place where it can best provide for itself and family.
Is glossy black in colour, with gleams of purple and green above—duller underneath.
Flies in wide circles high above the tree-tops, and utters a weird, uncanny cry, which has given it the name of being a bird of ill omen, and to many people the cry of the raven is deemed a sign of approaching evil.
Nest very compactly built of sticks and grasses and lined with wool from sheep's back. Nest is used year after year, being often relined and made habitable.
Young when first hatched are black and white—they however change to entire black in a very short time.
Food of the raven is varied, apparently anything edible which comes in his way—grain, seeds, grubs, worms, field-mice, fruit, are found on his menu.
"Please, Jack," begged Phyllis.
"Girls always talk," replied Jack.
"I will not say a word to you—indeed I will not."
"Well, if you spoil my fishing—" began Jack.
"And I'll pick thimbleberries for our lunch," said Phyllis, eagerly.
So it happened that a small girl in a great sunbonnet followed a small boy with a still larger straw hat and a fishing-pole and line, out of the back gate and down the lane.
True to her promise, Phyllis said nothing, but trudged along behind Jack with wide open, watchful brown eyes.
By and bye the children came to a pond of shining, clear water. How still everything seemed, how brightly the sun shone!
"Now if you talk you'll scare the fish," said Jack, with an air of great importance.
"I will not talk," Phyllis whispered back, shutting her lips very tightly and sitting down beside her brother with a little sigh.
Jack threw his line—Phyllis watched with awe. They sat for a moment waiting for a "bite."
Then Jack jerked the line up sharply, not so much because he thought he had caught something, as because he hoped he would catch something.
"I don't believe there are any fish here," he grumbled at last.
But Phyllis's bright eyes had caught sight of something and she forgot all about the fishing and her resolve not to speak.
"Look!" she cried, pointing to a fallen tree-trunk which hung over the water.
On a branch sat a bird. He was considerably larger than a robin.