to the
little dame whom we had surprised several days before, bringing great
pieces of what appeared to be lace, to line the nest she had made so
wonderfully. We had watched her, breathless, for a long time, while she
went back and forth carrying in old leaves, softened, bleached, and
turned to lace by long exposure, arranged each one carefully and moulded
it to place by pressing her breast against it, and turning round and
round in the nest. Curious enough she looked as she alighted at some
distance, and walked--not hopped--to her little "oven," holding the
almost skeletonized leaf before her like an apron, so busy that she did
not observe that she had visitors.

Then came a day when, on reaching our usual place, we found that an
accident had happened. The dainty roof was crushed in, and the poor
little egg, for which such loving preparations had been made, lay
pathetically on the ground outside the door. My comrade crept carefully
up, raised the tiny roof to place, and with deft fingers put a twig
under as a prop to hold it, then gently laid the pretty egg in the
lace-lined nest.

The next day we hurried out to see if the bird had resented our clumsy
human help. But no; like the wise little creature she was, she had
accepted the goods the gods had provided, and laid a second pearl beside
the first. On our next visit, therefore--especially when we heard the
gleeful song of her (supposed) mate--we came up with confidence to see
our little oven-bird homestead. But, alas! somebody not so loving as we
had been there; the two pretty eggs were gone, not a sign of them to be
seen, and the nest was deserted. Yet we could not give up a hope that
she would return, and day after day our steps turned of themselves to
the oven-bird's nook. This rainy day, as a dozen times before, we found
the little house still empty, and as before we turned sadly away, when
suddenly a new sound broke the stillness. "Wuk! wuk! wuk! wa-a-a-ah!
wa-a-a-ah!" it cried. It was the exact tone of a young baby, a naive
and innocent cry. What could it be? Was some tramp mother hidden behind
the bushes? Was it a new bird with this unbird-like cry? I was startled.
But my friend was smiling at my dismay. She pointed to the crotch of a
tree, and there a saucy gray squirrel lay sprawled out flat, uttering
his sentiments in this abominable parody on the human baby cry. I
believe the first squirrel learned it from some deserted infant, and
handed it down as a cho