Dotty always looked very low-spirited while her long hair was being curled over a stick, and now was more unhappy than usual, for it was one of her “temper days.”

But at last cousin Percy Eastman happened to call in, and declared he must take his pretty cousin home with him in the carriage.

“I’ll get her ready,” said Norah; “but you’re sure to be sorry if you take her, for she’s brimming over with mischief to-day.”

Dotty danced like a piece of thistledown.  “There, Nono,” said she, “I’s goin’ to auntie’s my own self; Prudy’ll have to give up.”

All this time Mrs. Parlin and the two older children were having a fine walk.  It was a bright June day.  Prudy said she had to sing to herself for all the things she saw looked as happy as if they were alive.  As Prudy talked, she flew from flower to flower, like a honey-bee.

“I can’t wait for Prudy to walk so zigzag,” said Susy.

Mrs. Parlin suggested that Susy should keep on, and tell her aunt Eastman they were coming.  Then she allowed Prudy to walk as “zigzag” as she pleased; for Mrs. Parlin had long patience with her children.

“O, mamma,” said Prudy, suddenly stopping short, and standing on one foot; “if there isn’t a cow!”

“I see, my dear, she is eating the sweet grass.”

“Yes, ’m; but don’t its horns flare out like a pitchfork?  Do you s’pose he knows how easy he could toss folks right up in the air?”

“I hope my little daughter is not afraid of a gentle cow.”

“No, indeed,” cried Prudy, clinging fast to her mother’s hand.  “Poh! if I was afraid of a cow I’d be a cow—­ard.  I’d as lief he’d see me as not, if you’ll shake your parasol at him, mamma.”

Prudy breathed more freely when the cow was out of sight.

Soon she saw something which caused her to forget her terror.  Peeping in among the branches of a small tree, she espied what she called a “live bird’s nest.”  Never having seen any young birds before, she wondered at first “who had picked off their feathers.”  The wee things seemed to be left to themselves while their mother was away providing supper.

“Haven’t they very big stretchy mouths, for such small birdies?” said Prudy.  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll crack their mouths in two, gaping so, mamma?”

“They are only hungry, child.  Suppose you feed them with a bit of a berry.”

Prudy nipped a strawberry into three parts with her thumb and forefinger, and dropped the pieces into their mouths.

“O, mamma, they swallowed it whole! they swallowed it whole!  Their teeth haven’t come!”

Prudy’s fresh delight and surprise were so pleasant to witness that her mother allowed her to linger for a while, mincing berries for the nestlings supper.

When, at last, they reached Mrs. Eastman’s, Prudy eagerly described the young wonders she had found.

“It was like a story,” said she, “of little widow-children,—­how the mother was dead, and the children had to stay alone.”