Now, how do you think this little bird knew how to fly,――where to go,――and how to ’light upon the fence? for you must remember that he had never been out of the box before. I suppose you will tell me that he was guided by instinct――that strange power given by the Creator; and you will tell me right. After the first one had departed, the others came out one by one, and all were successful in their first flight, except the last. This little fellow, in attempting to light upon the fence, missed his footing, and fell to the ground. The old wrens came to him immediately, and there was a prodigious chattering about what had happened. The little fellow looked very serious for a time, but at last he made a new effort, flew a little distance, and reached one of the lower rails of the fence. The old wrens cheered him with their approbation, put a big spider into his mouth, and he seemed to be quite happy. This was a great day among the wren family. Never was there such a bustle before! The little wrens kept calling out for something to eat; the old wrens flew first to one and then to another, giving each an insect with a little good advice, and departing to provide more food. It would take me a long time to tell all that happened upon this interesting occasion. Jack was there, and saw it all, and if you ever meet with him, you had better ask him about it. I can only tell you, at present, that, from this time, he was very much interested in birds; not as creatures to be hunted and tormented or killed, but as creatures that build nests, and have their homes, and rear their young ones, which they love very much, and whom they treat with the utmost care and tenderness. He looked upon them as creatures displaying great ingenuity, many curious habits and wonderful instincts. He, therefore, found a great deal more pleasure in watching their movements, and studying their characters, than in throwing stones at them, or shooting them. I shall tell you about other birds as we proceed in our story. Dick Boldhero. CHAPTER I. _Early days――The keg of gold――Misfortunes――Voyages._ As I am about to tell my story, it is proper that I should say something of my birth, parentage and early days. About half way between Hartford and New Haven, in Connecticut, is a small, pleasant city, called Middletown. It is situated upon the western bank of Connecticut river, and lies upon the turnpike which constitutes the great avenue between the two places first mentioned. About a mile and a half south of Middletown, upon this high road, is a turnpike gate, and contiguous to it is a small toll-house. This was originally called Hill-gate, being situated on a hill, but at last it was familiarly called Hell-gate. In the house which bore this ominous title, I was born, about five and forty years ago.