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Ye can't hatch out hummin'-birds by sittin' on ducks' eggs, and that's what's the matter over at Otto's." "Well, whose eggs were they?" John had inquired, half asleep by the stove, his tired legs outstretched, the evening paper dropping from his hand. "Oh, I don't say that they are not Kling's right enough, John. Masie is his child, I know.
"Sounds like a book, but I'll bet I seen hundreds of Hummin'-birds round the Trumpet-vine and Bee-balm in the garden, an' they weren't a millionth part as purty as this. Why, it's just as red as blood, shines like fire and has black wings.
"Fam'ly pets, then, has a right to do as it is their nature for to do?" squealed Todd, working nearer. Mr. Bickford scornfully turned his back on this vulgar railer. The carriage was at hand. "How about pets known as medder hummin'-birds?" demanded Todd. The Cap'n was the first in. Hiram came next, kicking out at the amiable Hector, who would have preceded him.
"Talkin' 'bout Injuns," said Bill, "all I don't know 'bout 'em you c'd write on a hummin'-bird's finger-nail." "Hummin'-birds don't have no finger-nails," corrected Shorty Palmer. "Sure they don't," allowed Bill. "But you c'd write it on one if they did." "They has claws," persisted Shorty. "B'sides, no hummin'-bird ain't goin' t' stay still long enough for you to write on his claw."
"They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
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