vite my
guests to have some refreshments."

The birds seemed much surprised by this invitation, and even Policeman
Bluejay wondered what she was going to do. But Twinkle whispered to
Chubbins, and both the bird-children flew into their basket and
returned with their claws full of cookie. They repeated the journey
many times, distributing bits of the rare food to all of the birds who
had visited them, and each one ate the morsel eagerly and declared that
it was very good.

"Now," said the policeman, when the feast was over, "let us all go to
the brook and have a drink of its clear, sweet water."

So they flew away, a large and merry band of all sizes and colors; and
the child-larks joined them, skimming the air as lightly and joyously
as any of their new friends. It did not take them long to reach a
sparkling brook that wound its way through the forest, and all the
feathered people drank their fill standing upon the low bank or upon
stones that rose above the level of the water.

At first the children were afraid they might fall into the brook; but
presently they gained courage, and when they saw the thrush and
bullfinch plunge in and bathe themselves in the cool water Chubbins
decided to follow their example, and afterward Twinkle also joined
them.

The birds now bade the child-larks good-bye and promised to call upon
them again, and soon all had flown away except the bluejay, who said he
would see Twinkle and Chubbins safe home again, so that they would not
get lost.

They thanked him for this kindness, and when they had once more settled
upon the limb beside their nest the bluejay also bade them good night
and darted away for one last look through the forest to see that all
was orderly for the night.

[CHAPTER VIII] _Mrs. Hootaway_

As the child-larks sat side by side upon their limb, with the soft gray
nest near at hand, the twilight fell and a shadow began to grow and
deepen throughout the forest.

"Twink," said Chubbins, gravely, "how do you like it?"

"Well," replied the girl, "it isn't so bad in the daytime, but it's
worse at night. That bunch of grass mixed up with the stems of leaves,
that they call a nest, isn't much like my pretty white bed at home,
Chubbins."

"Nor mine," he agreed. "And, Twink, how ever can we say our prayers
when we haven't any hands to hold up together?"

"Prayers, Chub," said the girl, "are more in our hearts than in our
hands. It isn't what we _do_ that counts; it's