OUR YOUNG FOLKS.

An Illustrated Magazine

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

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HUM, THE SON OF BUZ.

At Rye Beach, during our summer's vacation, there came, as there alwayswill to seaside visitors, two or three cold, chilly, rainy days,—dayswhen the skies that long had not rained a drop seemed suddenly tobethink themselves of their remissness, and to pour down water, not bydrops, but by pailfuls. The chilly wind blew and whistled, the waterdashed along the ground, and careered in foamy rills along the roadside,and the bushes bent beneath the constant flood. It was plain that therewas to be no sea-bathing on such a day, no walks, no rides; and so,shivering and drawing our blanket-shawls close about us, we sat down tothe window to watch the storm outside. The rose-bushes under the windowhung dripping under their load of moisture, each spray shedding aconstant shower on the spray below it. On one of these lower sprays,under the perpetual drip, what should we see but a poor littlehumming-bird, drawn up into the tiniest shivering ball, and clingingwith a desperate grasp to his uncomfortable perch. A humming-bird weknew him to be at once, though his feathers were so matted and glueddown by the rain that he looked not much bigger than a honey-bee, and asdifferent as possible from the smart, pert, airy little character thatwe had so often seen flirting with the flowers. He was evidently ahumming-bird in adversity, and whether he ever would hum again looked toPg 2us exceedingly doubtful. Immediately, however, we sent out to have himtaken in. When the friendly hand seized him, he gave a little, faint,watery squeak, evidently thinking that his last hour was come, and thatgrim Death was about to carry him off to the land of dead birds.

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