visible in the far east. It
was a bright spring morning, and as he and his sprightly little wife
hopped nimbly about on the daisy-spangled lawn, ere the dew had
disappeared from the little pink and white flowers, and as they here and
there picked up a worm or an insect, he felt wonderfully refreshed,
indeed by the time he had taken his morning bath, and had plumed his
feathers, he was quite himself again.

The thirteen days which now followed were very important ones; for,
during that time, our Blackbird's patient young wife sat almost
uninterruptedly upon her nest. She stole away for a few moments to the
neighbouring hedgerows for breakfast or dinner; but she was never happy
till she was back again to her precious charge.

It was at this time that the Blackbird poured forth his very best music.
He had never sung so many nor such varied songs before; now that his
partner could not go about with him, he had so much to tell her of his
rambles and of course he told it all in song.

He did not always perch on their own bush. He was afraid that if he did
so he might attract too much attention, but from the bough of any tree
close at hand he cheered her heart with his beautiful melodies.

[Illustration: THE ROBIN'S NEST.]

Then it was that he told his wife of the green hedgerows where the
golden, star-shaped blossoms of the celandine were luxuriant, and where
the shy primroses were just beginning to show their pale heads. He would
sing of the blackthorn whose snowy blooms were then just peeping out,
and of the hawthorn already covered with its tender green leaves. He
told her, and this was a profound secret, of the nest of their good
friend, the Robin, which was very cunningly concealed at the top of the
ivy. It was a soft, cosy little nest, not plastered with mud as
theirs was, but lined with silky hair. The Robin had shown him five
little pale eggs, white spotted with brown, at the bottom of the nest,
half hidden by the soft hair.

The Blackbird had also come across a most remarkable nest, that of the
golden-crested wren. "My old friend, the Rook, tells me," said the
Blackbird, "that this wren is the very smallest of our birds. He
certainly is a great beauty with his crown of golden feathers. His nest
is in yonder yew-tree. It seems large for a bird of his size. It is
almost entirely built of moss, and, can you believe it, the wren uses
spider's webs to bind it together! It seemed to be hanging from the
bough, and w