The Story Hour: A Book for the Home and the KindergartenWiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
General
The Story Hour: A Book for the Home and the Kindergarten
Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children's stories; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Short stories
Then how busily they began their work! They had already chosen the place
for their nest, springing up and down in the boughs till they found a
branch far out of sight of snakes and hawks and cruel tabby cats, high
out of reach of naughty small boys with their sling-shots, and now
everything was ready for these small carpenters to begin their building.
No hammer and nails were needed, claw and bill were all the tools they
used, and yet what beautiful carpenter work was theirs!
Do you see how strongly the nest is tied on to those three slender
twigs, and how carefully and closely it is woven, so that you can
scarcely pull it apart? Those wiry black hairs holding all the rest
together were dropped from Prince Charming's tail (Prince Charming is
the pretty saddle-horse who crops his grass, under the willow-tree).
Those sleek brown hairs belonged to Dame Margery, the gentle mooly cow,
who lives with her little calf Pet in the stable with Prince Charming;
and there is a shining yellow spot on one side. Ah, you roguish birds,
you must have been outside the kitchen window when baby Johnny's curls
were cut! We could only spare two from his precious head, and we hunted
everywhere for this one to send to grandmamma!
Now just look at this door in the side of the nest, and tell me how a
bird could make such a perfect one; and yet I've heard you say, “It's
only a bird; he doesn't know anything.” To be sure he cannot do as many
things as you, but after all you are not wise enough to do many of the
things that he does. What would one of my little boys do, I wonder, if
he were carried miles away from home and dropped in a place he had never
seen? Why, he would be too frightened to do anything but cry; and yet
there are many birds, who, when taken away a long distance, will perch
on top of the weather-vane, perhaps, make up their little bits of minds
which way to go, and then with a whir-r-r-r fly off over house-tops and
church-steeples, towns and cities, rivers and meadows, until they reach
the place from which they started.
Look at the nest for the last time now, and see the soft, lovely lining
of ducks' feathers and lambs' wool.
Why do you suppose it was made so velvet soft and fleecy? Why, for the
little birds that were coming, of course; and sure enough, one morning
after the tiny house was all finished, I leaned far out of the window
and saw five little eggs cuddled close together; but I did not get much
chance to look at those precious eggs, I can tell you; for the mamma
bird could scarcely spare a minute to go and get a drink of water, so
afraid was she that they would miss the warmth of her downy wings.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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