“Did you watch the birds while they were making it, Mollie?”

“No; but one night after tea, when Auntie and Susie and I were playing at choosing birds,—­telling which bird we liked best and why, you know,—­papa came along and said:  ’I choose the chirping sparrow for my bird’; and when we laughed at him and called for his reasons (because chippies are such insignificant things, you know, and no singers), he told us he liked them because they were tame and friendly, and because they built such neat, pretty nests; and he pulled an old nest he had saved in pieces, and showed us how it was put together.”

“Yes,” said Susie; “and the other reason he gave for liking them best was, that they got up early and rang the rising-bell for all the other birds.  That was such a funny reason for papa to give, for we all know he dearly loves his morning nap.”

“Really, now, do the chippies get up first in the morning?” said Florence.

“With the first peep of day,” Miss Ruth answered.  “This morning I heard their cheerful twitter before a ray of light had penetrated to my room; and a welcome sound it was, for it told me the long night was over.  One dear little fellow sang two or three strains before he succeeded in waking any body; then a robin joined in, in a sleepy kind of way; then two or three wrens, and then a cat-bird; and, last of all, my little weather-bird, which, from the topmost branches of the elm-tree, warbled out to me that it was a pleasant day.  Oh, what a sweet concert they all gave me before the sun rose!”

“I never heard of a weather-bird, Aunt Ruth.”

“Your Uncle Charlie gave him that name, Susie, when we were children.  His true name is Warbling Verio; but we used to fancy the little fellow announced what kind of day it would be.  If clear he called out:  ‘Pleasant day!’ three times over, with a pause between each sentence and a long-drawn-out Yes at the close; or, if it rained, he said ‘Rainy day’ or ‘Windy day,’ describing the weather, whatever it might be, always with an emphatic Yes.

“One day he talked to me, but it was not about the weather.  Things had gone wrong with me all the morning.  I had spoken disrespectfully to my grandmother, and had been so cross and impatient with baby Walter that mother had taken him from me, though she could ill spare the time to tend him.  Then I ran through the garden to a little patch of woods behind the house, and sat on an old log, in a very bad humor.

“Presently, high above my head in the branches of the walnut-tree, the weather-bird began his monotonous strain.  I paid no attention to him at first, I was so taken up with my own disagreeable thoughts, till it came to me all at once that he was not telling me it was a pleasant day, though the sun was shining gloriously and a lovely breeze rustled the green leaves.  What was it the little bird was saying over and over again, as plain as plain could be?  ’NAUGHTY GIRL!  NAUGHTY GIRL!  NAUGHTY GIRL!  Y-E-S.’