"Well, boys, were you pleased enough with our last conversation to wish to hear more about birds' nests?"

"Yes, if you please, Uncle Philip. You said something about birds that were weavers; we should like to hear something of them."

"Very well, then; I will talk about the weavers this morning. And the first thing I have to say is that this is no uncommon trade among birds. Take the nest of any of the common small birds that use hair for a lining, and you will be apt to find some part of it woven."

"But, Uncle Philip, you do not mean that birds weave as smoothly and regularly as people do!"

"Not quite, boys; but still it is very fair weaving, and done as our weaving is, by working a hair or thread in and out between other hairs and threads, or roots, or bits of stick and grass. The best way to see it, is to remove the outside work of hay or roots very carefully, or to take away the felt-work of wool or moss, and you may see a round piece of hair-cloth, sometimes finer, and sometimes coarser, according to the bird that made it, and the things of which it is made. In the common sparrow's nest the hair-cloth is very thin, so that you can see through it easily; but still every hair is woven in singly, and always bent, so as to lie smooth in the bottom of the nest. And there are no ends of hairs left sticking out; they are always worked into the moss which makes the outside of the nest."

"Uncle Philip, how do the birds make the hairs lie smooth in their places?"

"About that, boys, there is some uncertainty. Some persons think that the birds have a kind of glue in their mouths by which they make them stick; and others suppose that they wet the hairs, so as to make them bend. But there are much better weavers than the common sparrow. The red-breast and the yellow-hammer are both better workmen."

"Where do they get hairs. Uncle Philip?"

"They find bunches of them sticking in the cracks of a fence or post where a horse or cow has been rubbing; and some of these little creatures, when they find such a bunch, will pull it to pieces, and work it in, hair by hair."

"Are there many of these weaver-birds. Uncle Philip?"

"Yes, boys, a great many: our country is quite full of them. There is the mountain ant-catcher, [12] which will weave a nest of dry grass, and wind the blades round the branches of a tree; and the king-bird, [13] which first makes a basket frame-work of slender sticks, and afterward weaves in wool and tow, and lines it with hairs and dry grass. There is another, too, the white-eyed fly-catcher, which some have called the politician. This bird builds its nest and hangs it up by the upper edge of the two sides on a vine. The outside is made of pieces of rotten wood, threads of dry stalks or weeds, pieces of paper, commonly old newspapers; and all these are woven together with caterpillar's silk, and lined with fine dry grass and hair."

"Uncle Philip, why do they call it the politician? What is a politician?"

"What is commonly called a politician, boys, is a person who is always reading in newspapers about the government of the country, and talking a great deal about the President and Congress, and the laws that are made, and all such things: but the real politician is one who studies the different kinds of government which have been in the world, and endeavours to find out which is good and which is bad, and why they are good or bad. He reads, too, a great deal of history, to learn how other nations have done, what kind of laws they made, and why they made them, how they became great nations, or how they became very poor; and he thinks, too, a great deal, that he may find out what will be best for his own nation. It requires hard study and thought, boys, to make a good politician."

"Then, Uncle Philip, a man cannot learn how to be one out of the newspapers."

"No, boys; not out of newspapers alone: but still he will read them, and very often learn from them things very useful to him in his business. Newspapers are valuable things, and I think it is always best for a country to have a great many of them spread about in it. But they will not, of themselves, make a man a politician; and if you should ask the persons who print them, whether they expect them to teach men all about governments, they will tell you, No: but they will teach people what is doing in all the governments in the world. No good government, boys, will ever be afraid to let the people have newspapers. They are always fewest where the government is hardest upon the people. But let us go back to the birds. Can you tell me now why some people call the fly-catcher a politician?"

"Oh, yes; because he has so many bits of old newspapers about his nest."

"That is the reason, boys. There is another kind of fly-catcher, called the hooded fly-catcher, and it weaves its nest of flax and strings pulled from the stalks of hemp: but the best weaver in this country is the Baltimore starling. This bird chooses the ends of high bending branches for his nest, and he begins in a forked twig, by fastening strong strings of hemp or flax around both branches of the fork, just as far apart as he means the width of his nest to be: he then with the same kind of strings, mixed in with pieces of loose tow, weaves a strong, firm kind of cloth, which is like the hatter's felt in appearance, only that you can see that the nest is woven, not felted. In this way he makes a pouch, or purse, six or seven inches deep, and lines it on the inside with several soft things, which he weaves into the outside netting, and finishes the whole with horse-hair. Mr. Wilson describes one of these nests which he had. He says that it was round like a cylinder. Do you know what a cylinder is?"

"No, Uncle Philip."

"A smooth round pillar to hold up a porch is a cylinder; my walking-cane is a cylinder; so is the straight body of a tree. When these are of the same size all through their whole length, they are perfect cylinders; and any thing in that shape is a cylinder."

"We understand you, Uncle Philip; a gun-barrel is a cylinder, and there is a cylinder in your garden."

"What is it?"

"The heavy stone roller that you let us pull over the walks."

"Right. Well, this nest was like a cylinder, about five inches across, and seven inches long. At the top the bird had worked a level cover, so as to leave a hole only two inches and a half across; at the bottom it was round. It was made of flax, tow, hemp, hair, and wool, and was woven into a complete cloth; it was also tightly sewed through and through with long horse-hairs, some of which when drawn out measured two feet. Here is a picture of this nest. In the bottom it had bunches of cows' hair, and these were also sewed down with horse-hairs. This bird, boys, is a thief."

"A thief, Uncle Philip! What does it steal?"

"When I say it is a thief, boys, I mean that it takes what does not belong to it: but it is not a thief as man is. When a man takes something which belongs to another person, he knows that it is not his; and therefore he steals: but the poor bird does not know, and that makes a difference. You asked me what it steals: I will tell you. At the time for building its nest, it will take whatever suits for that purpose; and therefore the country women are obliged to watch their thread that they have put out to bleach: the farmer, too, who has cut off young grafts from his fruit-trees and tied them up in bundles, must be careful, or the bird will pull at the string till he gets it off; and sometimes, when the bunch is not too large, he will fly off with the whole. In autumn, when the leaves have fallen, you may sometimes see skeins of silk and hanks of thread hanging about the starling's nest, but so woven up and entangled in it that they are good for nothing. Now, boys, before this country was settled by people from Europe, where do you suppose the starling got silk and thread for his nest?"

"Why, Uncle Philip, are you sure he got them at all?"

"A very sensible question, boys. When you are asked why a thing is so, it is always well, first to be satisfied that it is so, before you begin to look for a reason. I have read a story about this very thing: would you like to hear it?"

"Oh yes, Uncle Philip."

"Well, then, I have read that there were once several philosophers (I told you what a philosopher is, you know), who were in the habit of meeting together to put questions to each other, and to make new discoveries. At one of these meetings, one of them asked the others, 'Why a fish weighed more in the water than he did out of it?' Several of them gave very wise reasons, as they thought; and all the reasons were different: so they could not agree. There was among them, however, a very sensible old gentleman, who listened to them all, but said nothing. When he went home, he got a fish and weighed it, out of the water, and wrote down its weight; he then took a bucket of water, and weighed that; and when he dropped the fish in the bucket, he found that it increased the weight of the whole, precisely as many pounds as the fish had weighed out of the water; so he found out that there was no reason why a fish weighed more in the water than he did out of it, because it was not true: his weight was the same either in or out of it."

"Ah, Uncle Philip, that is a pleasant story: he was a sensible old gentleman."

"Yes, boys, he was; and it was sensible in you to ask first whether the starling did use silk and thread before Europeans came here; and after that is answered, it is time enough to ask where he got such things. Now the truth is, that he did not use them until after Europeans brought them here; because there were no such things in this country: for the Indians who lived here could not make thread. I think; and I am sure they could not spin silk: but I will tell you, boys, what it shows us; and it is that I wish you to notice."

"What is it, Uncle Philip?"

"It is the wisdom of this bird in taking advantage of circumstances. No doubt he built very good nests long before silk and thread were in the country; but he had sense enough to know that they were exactly what suited him, and he used them as soon as he could get them."

"Then, Uncle Philip, you think that the bird has reason?"

"No, boys, I do not: but you have reason, and I have something to say to you about it. It is this: as God has given you reason, and so made you better than the poor dumb animals, he expects more from you. That is fair, is it not?"

"Yes, Uncle Philip; very fair."

"Then what I wish you to remember is this: that you must use your reason in such way as to glorify God. He gave it to you to learn his will and his commandments, and to live accordingly. So now you see the things which our conversations about the animals can teach us. In the first place, we see the goodness of God; in the second place, we see the power of God; in the third place, we see the wisdom of God: and we see in ourselves that God has done more for us than he has done for them, and therefore we ought to love and serve him: we ought to believe what he says in his Word; we ought to pray to him for his blessed help; we ought, first of all, to seek the salvation of our souls, through our Lord Jesus Christ.

"Now, my dear children, to-morrow I must leave home for a few weeks; but when I come back we will talk together again: and as I am going to see my nephews, I will get a book which they printed about insects; it is called the History of Insects, [14]—and I will bring it to you; and some of the largest boys among you may read it aloud, and I will explain to you what you cannot understand. If you are pleased with what I have been telling you, that book will tell you a great deal more."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Philip. We shall like it very much."

"Farewell, boys."

"Good-by, dear Uncle Philip."