the banks of rivers, and my thoughts alone are no light weight. I restored the fledgling to the nest, added the worms, and went for further food.
I procured a saucer, brown bread, milk. I steeped the crumb of the bread in the milk. I brought sugar, one lump, and therewith sweetened the mess. Sugar is sustaining. The German army performs prodigies of route-marching on sugar alone. I placed the saucerful of bread, milk, and sugar in the nest, after replacing the fledgling in that snug nook. The worms, too, had wandered away. These I placed in the sugar and milk and bread. Then I put the fledgling on the whole and, closing the creel, stole away confident that the bird would do well enough.
Half an hour later I returned.
The fledgling was dead.
This is really a tragedy—one of the innumerable tragedies of good intentions; for I have been told, since, that had I not meddled, the chick would have been cared for by its parents and nursed, out of nest, to a size, strength, and wing-power which should enable it to look after itself. If this be so—which I should like to deny—I am responsible for the death of this young bird. Yet my intentions towards it were of the most kindly. If I sinned it was through ignorance, which is no excuse, hardly a palliation. I assumed a respon-
