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Rusty Wren
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AFTER Rusty Wren had revived his drooping spirits by eating heartily of three dozen insects of different kinds and sizes, he felt so cheerful that he couldn’t help trilling a few songs. It was almost evening; and he was glad not to let the sun go down without thanking him in that way for shining so brightly all day.

Though it was so late, Farmer Green still toiled in the fields; but Rusty could hear Johnnie and old dog Spot driving the cows down the lane towards the barn.

Now, above the wide door of the car­riage house a window was open — a window through which Rusty had flown early in the morning. Unlike old Mr. Crow, Rusty Wren was not in the least afraid to enter any of the farm buildings. Per­haps if Rusty had been in the habit of taking Farmer Green’s corn he would have thought twice before he ventured in­side the cow barn or the carriage house. But since he never damaged the crops, and always helped them by destroying a great number of insects that ate all sorts of growing things, Rusty had nothing whatever to fear from anybody in the farmhouse — except the cat, of course.

There was really no reason for Rusty’s flying through the open window, beyond the fact that he liked to prowl around the great, dusty room under the eaves, to see what he could find. Once he was in­side, he noticed something that had not caught his eye on his former visit. Hanging from a rafter, where the slanting rays of the setting sun fell squarely upon it, was a big bunch of brown tobacco leaves.

Rusty Wren gave a chirp of pleasure at the sight. That was where he must have picked up the bit of tobacco that had clung to his tail feathers and upset his wife’s good nature.

“I’ll go right home and get her and bring her here so she can see this tobacco herself!” he said aloud. “Then she’ll know where that shred came from which fell on the floor.” He did not say “which I brushed onto the floor,” for he never could remember long that he ever did such careless things.

Well, Rusty Wren went out of the win­dow a good deal faster than he had flown in. And, in less time than it takes to tell it, he was perched on top of his house again and calling to his wife.

“I know now where the tobacco came from!” he sang out. “Just come outside and I’ll show you. It’s upstairs in the carriage house!”

To his delight, Mrs. Rusty answered in the sweetest tone imaginable. But she said she didn’t want to come out just then. And she didn’t seem a bit interested in tobacco any more.

“You come right into the house!” she cried. “There’s something here that I want to show you.”

Rusty Wren whisked through the hole in the maple syrup can. Home had never looked quite so good to him before, for he had not been there since the middle of the morning.

“What is it?” he asked eagerly.

His wife was sitting on their nest. And there was nothing new in the house, so far as he could see.

She moved aside then. “Look!” she I said.

And, peering into the nest, Rusty saw a speckled egg there. It was really a small egg. But to Rusty Wren’s eyes it seemed decidedly big.

He was so surprised that he couldn’t speak for as much as two seconds. And then he began to sing — he was so happy.

Though Mrs. Rusty kept very still, she seemed much pleased. And, strange to say, she never mentioned smoking to her husband again.

She had something more important to think about.