Freckles laughed at his own jest, while in better humor he climbed to examine the neat, tiny cradle and its contents.  The hen darted at him in a frenzy.  “Now, where do you come in?” he demanded, when he saw that she was not similar to the goldfinch.

“You be clearing out of here!  This is none of your fry.  This is the nest of me little, yellow friend of the wire, and you shan’t be touching it.  Don’t blame you for wanting to see, though.  My, but it’s a fine nest and beauties of eggs.  Will you be keeping away, or will I fire this stick at you?”

Freckles dropped to the trail.  The hen darted to the nest and settled on it with a tender, coddling movement.  He of the yellow coat flew to the edge to make sure that everything was right.  It would have been plain to the veriest novice that they were partners in that cradle.

“Well, I’ll be switched!” muttered Freckles.  “If that ain’t both their nest!  And he’s yellow and she’s green, or she’s yellow and he’s green.  Of course, I don’t know, and I haven’t any way to find out, but it’s plain as the nose on your face that they are both ready to be fighting for that nest, so, of course, they belong.  Doesn’t that beat you?  Say, that’s what’s been sticking me all of this week on that grass nest in the thorn tree down the line.  One day a blue bird is setting, so I think it is hers.  The next day a brown bird is on, and I chase it off because the nest is blue’s.  Next day the brown bird is on again, and I let her be, because I think it must be hers.  Next day, be golly, blue’s on, and off I send her because it’s brown’s; and now, I bet my hat, it’s both their nest and I’ve only been bothering them and making a big fool of mesilf.  Pretty specimen I am, pretending to be a friend to the birds, and so blamed ignorant I don’t know which ones go in pairs, and blue and brown are a pair, of course, if yellow and green are—­and there’s the red birds!  I never thought of them!  He’s red and she’s gray—­and now I want to be knowing, are they all different?  Why no!  Of course, they ain’t!  There’s the jays all blue, and the crows all black.”

The tide of Freckles’ discontent welled until he almost choked with anger and chagrin.  He plodded down the trail, scowling blackly and viciously spanging the wire.  At the finches’ nest he left the line and peered into the thorn tree.  There was no bird brooding.  He pressed closer to take a peep at the snowy, spotless little eggs he had found so beautiful, when at the slight noise up raised four tiny baby heads with wide-open mouths, uttering hunger cries.  Freckles stepped back.  The brown bird alighted on the edge and closed one cavity with a wiggling green worm, while not two minutes later the blue filled another with a white.  That settled it.  The blue and brown were mates.  Once again Freckles repeated his “How I wish I knew!”