“I’ve seen the House People!” screamed the Catbird.

“They wish well to the Bird People, and we shall be happier than before!” squeaked the Swift, breathless and eager.  “Listen!”—­and the birds all huddled together.  “This morning when I flew down the chimney, wondering if I should dare build my nest there again, I heard a noise on the outside, so I dropped as far as I could and listened.

“A voice said, ’Mammy Bun, we will leave this chimney for the birds; do not make a fire here until after they have nested!’ I was so surprised that I nearly fell into the grate.”

“And I,” interrupted the Catbird, “was looking in the window and saw the man who spoke, and Mammy Bun too.  She is a very big person, wide like a wood-chuck, and has a dark face like the House People down in the warm country where I spend the winter.”

“There are children at the farm, I’ve seen them too,” cried the Phoebe, who usually lived under the eaves of the cow-shed; “three of them—­one big girl, one little girl, and a BOY!”

“I told you so!” lisped the Barn Swallow; and a chorus of ohs and ahs arose that sounded like a strange message buzzing along the wires.

“The BOY has a pocket full of pebbles and a shooter,” gasped the Phoebe, pausing as if nothing more shocking could be said.

“Yes, but the big girl coaxed the shooter away from him,” said the Chimney Swift, who was quite provoked because his story had been interrupted; “she said, ’Cousin Nat, father won’t let you shoot birds here or do anything to frighten them away, for he loves them and has spent half his life watching them and learning their ways, and they have grown so fearless hereabouts that they are like friends.’

“But Nat said, ’Do let me shoot some, Cousin Olive.  I don’t see why Uncle Roy likes them.  What good are birds anyway?  They only sit in the street and say “chuck, chuck, chuck” all day long.’

“’You say that because you have always lived in the city and the only birds you have watched are the English Sparrows, who are really as disagreeable as birds can possibly be,’ said the big girl; ’but here you will see all the beautiful wild birds.’

“Then the little girl said, ‘Why, brother, you always loved our Canary!’

“’Yes, but he is different; he is nice and yellow, and he knows something and sings too like everything; he isn’t like these common tree birds.’”

“Common tree birds indeed!” shrieked the Catbird.

“That is what the boy called us,” said the Chimney Swift, who then went on with his story about what he had heard the children say.

“‘Why you silly dear!’ cried, the big girl, laughing a sweet little laugh like the Bobolink’s song, ’that only proves how little you know about wild birds.  Plenty of them are more brightly colored than your Canary, and some of those that wear the plainest feathers sing more beautifully than all the Canaries and cage birds in the world.  This summer, when you have made friends with these wild birds, and they have let you see their homes and learn their secrets, you will make up your mind that there are no common birds; for every one of them has something very uncommon about it,’