Little Willy did not say—­at least he did not say in our language—­that he should be happy to place himself awhile under his friend Julia’s care.  But he seemed very content, and soon made himself quite at home.  Though he had perfect liberty to go just where he pleased, and would often venture out of the house, yet he evidently considered himself an inmate of Mr Cornish’s family.  Under the care especially of Miss Julia, he became so tame that she could take him in her lap and stroke his feathers.  Willy was a great favorite in the family, after he had been there a day or two.  No one did any thing for his wing.  They did not understand setting birds’ wings, when they were broken.  Still, Willy got better in a very short time, without the assistance of a surgeon.  A great many sick people, you know, need the care of a nurse more than that of a doctor.  That was the case with Willy, it would seem.  In less than three weeks his wing was entirely well, and he was able to take care of himself.  So he warbled his adieu to the family under whose roof he had been so kindly treated, and flew away with the other robins who had been waiting for him.

[Illustration:  JULIA FEEDING THE BIRDS.]

Julia is very kind, too, to the snow-birds in the winter.  Many a time, when the snow has been deep, and these hungry birds have come to her father’s door, I have seen her feeding them.  One winter, I recollect, she had a flock of them that she could call to her, when she wanted to feed them, just as she could the chickens.  The snow-bird is an interesting little creature; and though he has not a very sweet voice for singing, he was always a favorite with Julia, and I am not sure but I love the fellow as well as she does.  Winter to me would be a great deal more gloomy, were it not for the Winter King, as Miss Gould calls this little bird.

Did you know reader, that the snow-bird is a very affectionate creature?  It seems that it is so.  Some years ago one of them flew into a house, where, finding itself quite welcome, it remained over night.  By accident, however, it was killed in the morning, and one of the servants threw it into the yard.  In the course of the day, one of the family witnessed a most affecting scene in connection with the dead body.  Its mate was standing beside it, mourning its loss.  It placed its beak below the head of its companion, raised it up, and again warbled its song of mourning.  By and by it flew away, and returned with a grain or two of wheat, which it dropped before its dead partner.  Then it fluttered its wings, and endeavored to call the attention of the dead bird to the food.  Again it flew away, again it returned, and used the same efforts as before.  At last, it took up a kernel of the wheat, and dropped it into the beak of the dead bird.  This was repeated several times.  Then the poor bereaved one sang in the same plaintive strain as before.  But the scene was too affecting for the lady who witnessed it.  She could bear the sight no longer, and turned away.  I have loved the snow-bird more than ever since this story was told me, and so has my friend Julia.