“It is written in words too long and difficult for you to understand.  Here is a page on the desk—­see if you can read it.”

Nat stood by the Doctor’s chair, but the longer he looked at the page the more puzzled he became, and at last he said, “I think, if you please, I’d rather have a book with only the birds’ plain American names.”  Then he spelled out slowly, “C-y-a-n-o-c-i-t-t-a c-r-i-s-t-a-t-a.  Why, that’s Latin, but it only means Blue Jay.”

“Couldn’t you write a little book for us, uncle—­just a common little book, all in plain words?” pleaded Dodo.  “There’s plenty of paper here, and of course the know-how is all in your head; because Olive says you know about every bird that lives in our America—­and then you need not put them quite all in our book.”

“Bless your innocent heart!  How many different kinds of birds do you think there are in ‘our America,’ my little Yankee?” “More than a hundred, I guess,” said Dodo after a long pause.

“Nearly a thousand, my lady!”

“A thousand!  I think we couldn’t remember so many.  Does Olive know about ’nearly a thousand’?”

“No, nor about a quarter of them, Dodo.  There are a great many birds that are rare or curious, but are not very interesting to people like you and me,” said Olive.

“Suppose you make us a little book about some of the very nicest American birds,” put in Nat, who had been looking at the row of stuffed birds in one of the cases, and began to feel a real interest in knowing their names and something about them.  “Oh, Uncle Roy!  Here’s a Robin.  See!  Dodo, see!  I knew it in a minute; it’s like meeting a fellow you know;” and Nat pranced about while the Doctor laughed as if he was well pleased.

“Now, children,” said he, “I have an hour’s more work this morning, and then we will talk over this bird matter.  Here is a little blank book, and a pencil for each of you.  Go down in the orchard, and when you find a bird, write in the book how it looks to you.  So—­size, color of head, throat, breast, back, tail, and wings—­that will be enough for once; but try to remember, also, how it sings.  You had better help them a bit to begin with, daughter,” he continued, turning to Olive, who went as gladly as if she were only ten years old like Nat, instead of being seventeen, and nearly as tall as her father, with skirts that covered her boot tops.

CHAPTER III

A SPARROW SETTLES THE QUESTION

The apple trees were not yet in bloom in the orchard, but the cherries were tricked out in dazzling white, and the peaches were blushing as prettily as possible.  On either side of the walk that led down through the garden, hyacinths, great mats of single white violets and bunches of yellow daffies were in flower, and as far as the children could see the fresh green orchard grass was gilded with dandelions.

“Isn’t it lovely?” cried Dodo, “I want to pick everything.”  She began to fill her hands with dandelions.  “Only I wish that mother was here”—­and a little quaver shook the merry voice.