That Amy had become so interested in these out-door neighbors turned out to
their infinite advantage, for one morning their excited cries of alarm
secured her attention. Hastening to the locality of their nest, she looked
upon a scene that chilled the blood in her own veins. A huge black-snake
suspended his weight along the branches of the shrubbery with entire
confidence and ease, and was in the act of swallowing a fledgling that,
even as Amy looked, sent out its last despairing peep. The parent birds
were frantic with terror, and their anguish and fearless efforts to save
their young redeemed them forever in Amy's eyes.

"Webb!" she cried, since, for some reason, he ever came first to her mind
in an emergency. It so happened that he had just come from the hay field to
rest awhile and prepare for dinner. In a moment he was at her side, and
followed with hasty glance her pointing finger.

"Come away, Amy," he said, as he looked at her pale face and dilated eyes.
"I do not wish you to witness a scene like that;" and almost by force he
drew her to the piazza. In a moment he was out with a breech-loading gun,
and as the smoke of the discharge lifted, she saw a writhing, sinuous form
fall heavily to the earth. After a brief inspection Webb came toward her in
smiling assurance, saying: "The wretch got only one of the little family.
Four birds are left. There now, don't feel so badly. You have saved a home
from utter desolation. That, surely, will be a pleasant thing to remember."

"What could I have done if you had not come?"

"I don't like to think of what you might have done--emulated the
mother-bird, perhaps, and flown at the enemy."

"I did not know you were near when I called your name," she said. "It was