grow strong enough to carry him away from the yellow cat.
I acquired the fledgling,—his parents cursing me, but they misunderstood my motives—and cast about for a receptacle; a lodging, not a cage. The birdlet's safety demanded something of the sort. My eye met, my reason rejected, several things—A cigarette-box, a glass-fronted cabinet, a string-bag. The creature meanwhile lay, still but palpitating, in my palm, its callow beak resting against a finger, its eyes closed in the extremity of terror. It was utterly dissatisfied with its situation.
I selected my fishing-creel. This was the very thing; large, deep, well ventilated, of dim interior. In it I lodged our guest.
I took dry grass, improvised a cosy nest, induced the fledgling to sit there. I closed the lid. Hospitality demanded that food should be provided.
I bethought me that young birds like worms, that worms are their staple fare. I took my very large clasp-knife and went into the garden where I procured two worms, pink, luscious, entirely suitable for a fledgling.
I introduced the worms into the creel. I found that the fledgling had deserted the nest I had made for it, was striving to break out through the wicker, a manifest impossibility. Mine is a strong creel, fifteen years old. It bears me while I meditate by
