Joey and I had discovered that a pair of martins were nesting in a hollow tree near the cabin, and in order to induce other pairs to pass the summer with us I had decided to erect a few bird houses on the premises. I was in the Dingle one evening, therefore, in the act of hoisting a martin house on a cedar pole, when Joey came through the elder bushes with his inquisitive small face in a pucker.
“Mrs. Olds says birds don’t like bird houses,” he hazarded.
“Indeed?” I murmured.
“Do they, Mr. David?”
“I think so, lad.”
“She says she guesses p’haps martins do, mor’n other birds. Why do martins like bird houses ’specially, Mr. David?”
“Why, lad,” I replied, straightening, and taking my pipe from between my lips, “I think it is because the Indians, long ago, before the white man’s time, made snug houses for the martins out of bark and fastened them to their tent poles; and accordingly the martins have grown friendly, and they like us to be hospitable and prepare a home for them.”
“I don’t like to have to coax them,” Joey decided. “You’re awful good to things, Mr. David—sometimes when you coax me, I know I’d ought to get whipped instead.”
It was the purple gloaming of an unusually sultry day; and as Joey finished, I looked at my watch.
“Bed-time, boy,” I announced.