“Yes, that is a nice way to feed one’s little ones,” said the mother woodpigeon. “A raw, live worm! Why, what could be nastier? No wonder they are forced to pick up things for themselves.”
“If they waited till their parents put a worm into their mouths, they would starve,” said the father woodpigeon. “It is quite dreadful to think of.”
“But I think the little chickens like picking up their own food,” said Tommy Smith. “They look so pretty running about.”
“They would look much prettier sitting in a warm nest, as ours do,” said the mother woodpigeon.
“And they would feel much more comfortable with you feeding them, my dear,” said the father.
“And with you helping me, you know,” said the mother bird, and she stretched her neck over the branch, and cooed softly to her husband, who looked up at her, and cooed again.
“Then do you both feed them?” asked Tommy Smith.
“Yes,” said the father woodpigeon; “and we take it in turns. You would not find many cocks who would do that, I think.”
“No; or help to hatch the eggs,” said the mother woodpigeon. “He does that too. Oh, he is so good!”