"What a fine shot!" he said, and fired his air-gun. The bird felt a
sharp, stinging pain in her side, and when she tried to fly she found
that she could not lift herself from the ground.
Fluttering and limping, she dragged herself along to the foot of the
tree where her nest was. Her broken wing hurt her very much, but she
chirped a little, in as cheerful a way as she could, so that her babies
should not be frightened. They chirped back loudly, because they were
hungry, and they could not understand why she did not come to them. She
knew all their voices, and when she heard the plaintive note of the
smallest, she tried again and again to fly. At last she fell in such a
way that she could not move her wings again.
All day she lay there, and when her children called, she answered with
her old, brave chirp. But as the hours went by, her voice grew fainter
and fainter, until at last it was still.
In the morning she was dead. The little ones called now in vain. They
cried until they were so tired that they fell asleep; but soon their
hunger waked them and they cried again.
The next night was cold, and they crowded together, hoping to get warm.
How they missed their mother's warm, soft feathers! It grew colder and
colder.
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