BABY-BIRDS. 179

old lady was still in sight. The ugly brown bird was on the
telegraph-wire.

“T wished I had ve old apron on!” sobbed poor little
Pudge, with very red cheeks. She thought she would go
home across the fields, and find the baby-bird, and get away
from the boys. But she never saw the baby-bird, and she
could n’t help hearing, ‘ Loo—oons !— ta—loo—oons!”’
from the boys, although she stopped her ears with all of her
little coal-dusty fingers in succession. And somchow the
little “‘ zhacket ”’ got up all in a heap under her arm, and
the little pantaloons unbuttoned and slipped, and slipped and
unbuttoned, and the brown bird on the telegraph-wire called
her

“ Child — of — sin— and — so—or—row !
Child — of — sin — and — so—o—or—row !”
the whole of the dreadful way home.

Poor little Pudge! She walked dismally into the parlor,
with the little trousers hung across her arm, and her white
petticoat flapping from under the “ zhacket”’ against her
scratched, bare knees.

“ Why, Pudge!” said mamma, and shut her up in the

library straightway.

Pudge sat in her petticoat and pouted, for she had expected
mamma, to comfort her.

“Ts my baby sorry?” by and by asked mamma, from the
door. But her baby sat still and said never a word.

“Tf only vere’d be a baby-bird to play wis!” sighed Pudge.

For it was very stupid in that library, always. But never