“Did you ever hear what became of the family of Wrens that lived in the honeysuckle over the back door?” asked Mrs. Thrush, who cared more for gossip than moralizing. “They were so pleasant and cheery.”
“Oh, yes. We started south before they left and I haven’t seen them since. They were a proud little folk, that made believe they were not proud, always wearing the finest clothes, yet in such sober colors. I always called them stuck up.”
“Their tails certainly were—he, he, he,” giggled Mrs. Thrush.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Redbreast. “That’s pretty good. I must tell that to Robin. But don’t you remember,” she went on, “the Blue Jays that lived in the elm tree down the lane?”
“I never thought them very well-bred,” replied Mrs. Thrush, bridling prettily, for she and her family pride themselves on their correct behavior. “Wonderfully pretty, but too loud.”
“Altogether too gay and noisy. Mrs. Jay was a great scold, and Blue almost as bad. You could hear them all over the neighborhood. Well, they lost all their children by a Hawk, though Mrs. Jay fought bravely for her little ones, and Blue proved himself a real hero. She over-exerted herself, however, and died shortly after of nervous prostration. I saw a girl, who had found her body, spreading out her poor dead wings and holding them up against her hat. She finally wrapped Mrs. Jay up in her handkerchief and carried her away.”
“If women would only be satisfied with the wings of a bird that had died a natural death we would not complain,” said Mrs. Thrush, as she folded her own pretty wings a little closer. “Blue Jay married again right away, of course,” she went on, as she dropped a little red ant down among the mill stones of her gizzard to be ground up.
“He did not even wait the conventional two weeks. If I thought Robin Redbreast would be looking out for another housekeeper so soon after my death he would not have such a good wife as he has to-day. He would have to hunt more worms and bugs than he does, instead of just bringing home a little bit of dessert in the shape of cherries or grapes to please the children;” and the mother fluffed up her feathers alarmingly.
“That makes me think,” said Mrs. Thrush, “that I promised the children an especially nice supper to-night if they would not chirp or stick up their heads and look over the edge of the nest. They are really getting so big now that Mr. Thrush and I can do nothing with them. Last night when I went home I found my eldest son, Brown Thrush, sitting on the edge of the nest, and he is taller——”
Just then a large shadow wavered over the sunshiny sward, and with a scared exclamation of “Hawk!” the birds flew swiftly in different directions, not waiting to see that the object which cast the shadow was nothing but a harmless paper kite.