I tried to catch him, but he escaped into the forsaken nest.

What will become of him there, if his mother does not come back! August 15th, six o'clock .-- This morning, on opening my window, I found the little bird dying upon the tiles; his wounds showed me that he had been driven from the nest by his unworthy mother.

I tried in vain to warm him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; his eyes were already closed, and his wings hung down! I placed him on the roof in a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window.

The struggle of life against death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us.
Happily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my old neighbor; his conversation will distract my thoughts.
It was my portress.

Excellent woman! She wished me to read a letter from her son the sailor, and begged me to answer it for her.
I kept it, to copy it in my journal.