One real service I have been able to render the robins--in throwing stones at the crows. The crow has a sleek and clerical exterior, but inside he is as black-hearted a villain as wears feathers. He is a killer and eater of other people’s offspring. Early in the season he marks the nest, but eggs are not good enough for him, he waits until hatching time is well over and then descends upon it with his great sharp jaws ravaging and devouring. The other day a young bird took refuge from a crow in my bath-room. It was huddled up in a corner and I thought it a rat, but closer approach revealed it a baby mina, and through the open door I saw the enemy’s impudent black head peering in. He sailed away with imprecations on his beak and the mina was restored to its family; Atma fortunately knew where they lived. Two crows have marked our robins for their next dinner, and I am much interrupted by the necessity for disappointing them. I must say one is not disposed by such a circumstance as a nest to an over-confident belief in those disguising arrangements of nature that are so much vaunted in books of popular science. What could betray a nestful to the marauder more quickly than this perpetual treble chorus? Nothing, I am sure, unless the valiant declamation of its papa, who sometimes takes an exposed perch and tells the world exactly what he would do to a crow, if he could only catch him. Why are not young birds taught the wisdom of silence and old ones the folly of vaunting? Because birds and lizards and insects and things are not taught half as much as we imagine, and as to the protective colour of a robin I believe it only happens to be brown. In this Thisbe agrees with me; the amount of popular science which is not in Thisbe’s possession would make many a humble home happy. The small events of a garden, as I must apologize for pointing out once more, become important to any one who lies all day, warm or cold, awake or sleepy there, and I went in to tea lately bursting with the information that the tits had come. “The Titts,” said Thisbe meditatively. “Did we know them last year?” “I rather think we did,” I replied, “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Titt. I saw them this morning, but they didn’t leave cards.” At which I was obliged to dodge a suddenly illumined, perfectly undeserved sofa-cushion.