Centre Democrat

Nannie's Birds.

Many years ago there was a little girl whose name was Nannie. She lived among the hills which rise higher and higher until they form the Alleghany mountains. Like most farmers in these semi-mountainous districts, her father grew little grain, but kept all the cattle and sheep his land could support. Now-a-days he would be called a stock-farmer. There were clumps of bushes and many stones, and a few great rocks in the pastures; and the little lambs often strayed away from their mothers, and as soon as they were out of sight the silly little things thought they were lost. Nannie liked to search in all the hiding-places for the wandering babies, and when she had found them it was hard to tell which was the happier, she or the old sheep. She made herself very useful in this way, and saved her father much time and trouble. She was very brave, and never felt in the least afraid—not that there was really anything to be afraid of, but there are not many little girls who would like to go out in the fields all alone. She made many friends, and found many playmates among the little creatures whose homes were in the thickets. She learned a great deal about the wild birds, and became more familiar with their habits than she could have been had she only read about them in books, though no doubt books would have told about a much greater variety of birds. Nannie was very fond of her little pets, and as she was always very kind to them they were very fond of her. Sometimes she did some mischief, but it was always unintentional. Once she found a robin's nest built low enough for her to reach the pretty blue eggs, and she used to take them out every day and turn them over in her hand and look at them. There were never any little robins in that nest. Once some bluebirds made a nest where the twigs grew so as to form a cup, with the nest in the bottom. Nannie put her hand over the twigs, and when the old bird flew out she caught her and looked at all her pretty feathers. The birds never went back to their nest again. A pair of phoebe-birds had built their nest under the eaves of the barn every year ever since Nannie could remember. Every spring they came, and every summer at least three broods of young made their appearance from the little nest.

One Sunday afternoon, looking toward the barn, Nannie espied some naughty boys with long poles reaching up to the phoebes' nest. She knew there was cruel sport on foot, but she could do nothing until the boys had gone away; then she hastened to see what could be done for the poor birds. She found them in great distress, for the nest had been torn down and the four little ones lay on the ground. One was already dead, and the others seemed just ready to breathe their last. Nannie picked up those that were yet alive and put them in the nest. Then she fastened the nest as near the place where it was before as she could, and hid close by to see whether the old birds would find their young. They were flying about in deep trouble, but they did not see their nest. She moved it to what she thought might be a better place, but with no better success. She repeated the experiment several times, but failed in all her efforts. At last she found a board, and making one end secure in a chink in the wall she put the nest on the other end. Then the old birds flew to it joyfully, and with warmth and food nursed the poor little sufferers back to life. They cared for the little ones tenderly until they were able to fly. Then they taught them the use of their wings, and sent them out into the world to look out for themselves. They performed every duty faithfully until the last little bird was gone, and then they deserted the place and never risked another nest near the barn.

Little Nannie's brown locks grew thin and gray long years ago, and now they are as white as snow; but she still remembers the old farm, and her children and grandchildren are almost as familiar with every nook and corner as she was herself, though not one of them has ever seen it; and now her tiny great-grandchildren begin to clamor for "stories about when she was a little girl."