“We are all rather sad to-day,” said the Rook, after a few moments of silence; “we have just lost a very dear friend––indeed a cousin of mine.” The Blackbird 30 looked grave and sympathetic, and the Rook continued, “He started off yesterday evening to get some supper, and found his way to some grass-land which was being destroyed by these mischievous little grubs; he was busy pecking away at them, when all of a sudden we, who were in a tree hard by, heard a fearful noise, and saw a great deal of smoke. In another moment, as the smoke cleared away, we saw my poor cousin lying on the ground. He was quite dead; a young farmer had shot him with a terrible gun, thinking he was doing mischief; the stupid fellow little knew what good service my cousin was engaged upon in eating those grubs. This affair has made us all very sad indeed,” said the Rook, with a little extra huskiness in his voice: “poor fellow, he had just begun building his first nest, and his young widow is completely broken hearted.”
The Blackbird was very grieved for his friend’s trouble, and he felt rather uncomfortable besides, for it occurred to him that the same wretched man might very likely shoot him some evening, and then what would become of his little wife? He therefore prepared to fly off, but before doing so he said, “I hope we sha’n’t be 31 shot also, for these grubs are easier food to get at than the snails. I got hold of some snails this very morning, and my bill still aches with the trouble they gave me. I dropped them on the stones to break them, but one, and he was a fat fellow too, was so obstinate he would neither come out of his shell, nor could I crack it. So after ten minutes hard work I was obliged to leave the rascal. They are stubborn creatures, these snails,” said the Blackbird, with a groan that expressed his deep sense of injury.
“That they are,” replied the Rook, “and they ought to be taught better.”
A few days more went by and then the nest in the evergreen bush was completed. The inside walls, which were of mud, had been perhaps the most difficult part of the building, for although the Blackbirds would very often start off with a nice piece of soft mud in their beaks, it would get dry, in a very tiresome manner, before they could reach the nest, and it then crumbled to pieces as they tried to plaster it on the twigs. The birds persevered, however, and the mud walls were at last substantially built, and to crown the whole, a lining of soft grass was added.
The Blackbird was so over-joyed when the nest was finished, that, after carefully examining it outside to see that each twig was in its proper place, and looking at the neatly finished interior, he flew off to the laurel-bushes by the bay window and sang a song of such surpassing ecstasy that two little brown heads soon made their appearance at a bed-room window to listen. The little figures were clothed in long white night-dresses, for they were just going to bed, but they could not miss such a song. I am sure that if it could have been interpreted it would have proved to be a chant of joy and praise. The nest was completed, the home was ready!
That night as long brown lashes sank over soft sleepy eyes the little heads that belonged to them were still thinking of that jubilant carol, and about the same time, under the shelter of the ivy leaves, two other and much smaller heads were full of dreams of the future, of the newly-built home in the evergreen, and of all that new home might mean.
Some two days after this the Blackbird happened to be perched on the branch of a dark fir-tree. His young mate had been for some time sitting steadily 33 on the nest in the evergreen bush. To amuse her he had sung some of his sweetest songs. He could not see her very distinctly through the thick branches, so he thought he would just go and have a look at her. He flew to the bush, and there was a sight which, for a moment, made him feel almost breathless. His mate was perched on the bough above the nest, but what was that in the nest below?
Down in its very centre lay a round, smooth, pale blue object, shaded with light green, and marked at one end with reddish brown spots. There it lay securely, snugly; and it looked very fresh and beautiful. The Blackbird hopped nearer. What could it be? Was it really an egg? Yes, it was indeed an egg! His delight was so great that he could only express it in song, and the deep flute-like notes sounded from the little bush quite late into the twilight of that evening.
A few more days saw four eggs added to the first. Yes, five little blue balls now lay side by side. As his industrious little wife flew off to get supper the evening that the last egg was laid, the happy Blackbird perched himself on the very 34 top of the bush, to guard the nest and sing his evening song. He had not been there very long when he heard a door bang, and presently from under the old porch came the dear little couple he loved so well, the little one in her white frock and white hat, the other in his sailor’s suit.