distracted between the claims of a first family and their preparations for quickly following it with a second. At no time of year do birds work harder. Watch the Wren popping into its nest every three or four minutes all through the long day, with a beakful of caterpillars to feed its nearly fledged young, and think of the labour which goes to the gathering of such small and nimble provender. Or note the assiduous and unwearied foraging of parental Tits, just before the emergence of their young from all sorts of unsuspected holes and crevices at the beginning of the month. About the same date, an unusual commotion tells that the young Starlings have left the nest. Crowds of them come trooping over the meadows, now glowing with buttercups or reddening with sorrel. For the time being, their noisy squalling drowns all quieter bird notes.
Meanwhile, the Hedge Sparrows have their hands full in catering for a young cuckoo, which already fills the nest and by further growth, will expand it quite out of shape. One may still find a Robins' nest with eggs, surely an attempt at a third brood. Very late nests of the Blackbird and Thrush can, no doubt, be similarly explained. It is doubtful if the House Sparrow always draws the line even at three families, but here—sole opportunity—we may say a word in its favour, for it feeds its young with insect food and largely with small green caterpillars. The
