Gospel Story Finder

My ward and a neighboring ward recently went on a trip to the Atlanta Temple. It was my first time at the temple, so I was very excited. While we were standing outside waiting to do baptisms, I recalled the article “The Temple: What It Means to You” (April 1993) and felt the presence of the Lord. As I was doing confirmations, I felt the people were there, thanking me.
Shara TimberlakeFort Knox, Kentucky

Just a few days after Joseph’s talk with Carlos in the woodlot, Alvin lay desperately ill. At the sound of a door opening, Joseph’s glance flew in the direction of the sleeping room where his oldest brother had lain for three days in pain and distress. “How is he, Mother?” he inquired anxiously as Lucy emerged from the sickroom.
“Not good, Joseph. Not good at all.” She pushed back a wisp of hair from her pale face and studied the strings of herbs hanging from the rafters as though to find a remedy that would heal her beloved firstborn. “The doctors have tried everything they know. But nothing helps, Joseph. Nothing!” She shook her head hopelessly, and for a moment hid her face in her apron. When she looked up, an ashen calm had settled over her. “Alvin has called for each of you to come to his bedside.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “He wants to say good-bye.”
Joseph thought he couldn’t bear to see Alvin so white and still. Alvin, whom they all looked to, whose great strong arms had felled huge trees and had gently lifted Baby Lucy high up to the rafters. Now his eyes burned feverishly, and his tired voice rose and fell in a last farewell to each loved one.
He asked Hyrum to see that the new house was finished for their parents and admonished Sophronia to take care of them in their old age. He talked to each one in turn—Sam and William, then Catherine and Carlos. Each brother and sister listened with tear-filled eyes and heavy heart.
Then, calling Joseph to his bedside, Alvin leaned forward. “My time is short, Joseph. Be a good boy and do everything in your power to obtain the record.” His voice became stronger, urgent. “Be faithful to every instruction and keep every commandment given you.” There were a few more words and then Alvin, sinking back upon the pillow, asked for Baby Lucy, his little playmate sister.
“Oh, Amby, Amby!” she cried again and again, her wet cheek against his and her tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck as though to rouse his once-strong body.
But as quietly as a clock stops ticking, Alvin’s great heart stopped beating. Outside a star fell and the night was darker than before.
Everyone in the neighborhood grieved over Alvin’s death. “A noble young man,” they said. And in the family there was an emptiness that didn’t ease.
Joseph shivered in the December wind as he helped pile earth and straw against the foundations of their log house to keep out the winter blasts. Less than three months had passed since Joseph’s visit with the angel Moroni, but the world about him had changed from burnished leaf to barren bough, and soon a cold whiteness would cover the ground.
His world had changed too. Where before he had felt vibrantly alive, every sense sharpened and intensified, there was now an actual physical ache as though part of him had been amputated. If I had lost my leg long ago, it couldn’t hurt worse, he thought numbly.
Then one evening Father Smith ignored the tightening in his throat. “Maybe we should talk about it—about Alvin,” he said gently. “He was taken from us in the bloom of youth, but the Lord was good when he sent Alvin to our family.” He dabbed the moisture from his eyes. “Life does take up after trial and tribulation.”
“Alvin was the one who started the new house,” Sam began.
“He told me to be a good girl and to help Mother and Father,” added Catherine.
Joseph didn’t know if it were proper to tell about the time he and Alvin were in a crowd watching two Irishmen fight. He remembered that when one was about to gouge out the other’s eyes, Alvin took him by his collar and breeches and threw him over the ring. But aloud, he only said: “Alvin stood for the right. He was the strongest and bravest of all.”
Winter melted into spring. It was time to mend the fences and stone walls that marked the boundaries of the Smith farm. In the grinding labor of plowing, sowing, and cultivating, there was no time for Joseph to rest. But there was time for pondering the things the angel had taught him. He would resolve with every fiber of his being to become worthy of such a trust.
Joseph still longed to share his thoughts with Alvin. But gradually he discovered that though his yearning need to talk with him didn’t diminish, his grief subsided. As the shoots of pale green pushed up through the black earth, Joseph took comfort in a new closeness to God and his creations. Never had the violets seemed so velvety, the leaves so tender, the birdsongs so poignant. Laboring with his hands day after day, he felt himself growing in strength and power. And always there was the awareness of the high hill and the records and the angel Moroni. Four years seemed forever. Even one September to another was a lifetime.

Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”

“Our first location there was in a log stable belonging to a widow White. Some blocks east of what was known as the Temple block. This hovel was made of a small class of crooked poles, between which I often crept instead of raising the quilt hung over the doorway. This part … at that time was thickly covered with blackberry bushes mixed with oak and hazel brush. Our family were all sick with chills and fever (familiarly known as the shakes) except my mother.
“From this Mormon home … Brother George A. [Smith] started as an Apostle on his mission to England, he having to be lifted into the wagon, as he was too weak to walk. This was in September, 1839. Before leaving he placed in my hand his last quarter of a dollar with a request to get mother some tea. The next day the Prophet Joseph and his brother Hyrum visited us and administered to us all, father being delirious from the effects of the fever. Their words comforted us greatly, as they said in the name of the Lord you all shall be well again. Upon leaving the hovel Joseph placed his slippers upon my mother’s feet and sprang upon his horse from the doorway and rode home barefoot. The next day Joseph removed father to his own house and nursed him until he recovered.”3

Like many of you, I am frequently before those who are not of our faith, and the challenge is great and wonderful. Not long ago I was given a little honor before a great group of non-Latter-day Saint athletes. In the proceedings of the convention, one of my great idols, a Hall of Famer, was to take the rostrum and speak to us. Being the great athlete that he was, respected by many, I was shocked to hear his language as he repeatedly took the name of the Lord in vain. As I sat there, I wondered, “What do you do as a Latter-day Saint in these kinds of social situations?” And then I remembered—again, a great influence in my life—the counsel from a prophet and an experience that he had had one time coming out of surgery. An orderly who was wheeling the prophet back to his hospital room on a little metal cart caught his hand between the door and the cart in the elevator and, not thinking, let go with a few adjectives, taking the name of the Lord in vain in the process. And a prophet, sick as he was physically but very well spiritually, lifted his head and said, “Please don’t talk that way—that’s my best friend.”
Those thoughts went through my mind as I listened to my idol. As he concluded and sat down, I put my hand on his knee and said to him, “You’re terrific! Did you know that when I was growing up I had you on a high pedestal? But, if I might level with you, tonight you fell off that pedestal.”
He said, “Didn’t you like my workshop?”
I said, “I loved it. But every time you opened your mouth, you offended me and a lot of other people out there. I’m going to challenge you tonight, as your friend, to clean up your language.”
I thought of the apostle Paul and Joseph Smith and particularly of a prophet today, Spencer W. Kimball; and I learned on that occasion, as I have on many others, that people really want what you and I have, if we have the courage to give it.

It was while he was announcing high school basketball games as a college freshman that his wife first met him. June Dixon was still attending high school in nearby Spanish Fork when someone introduced her to him at a game.
They were married on 24 June 1952, while both were attending BYU. It was the height of the Korean War, and he was in the Utah National Guard, expecting his unit to be called to active duty at any time. But while other, closely related units went, his was never activated. At that time, a limited number of young men were being called on missions because of the war, and Dallin was not among them; the quota in his ward was filled.
“I think he’s always wished that he had enjoyed that opportunity. But later he was stake mission president in Chicago. And he was a good one,” his wife comments.

For much of my life I have suffered from depression and OCD, so feeling the Spirit was a rare occurrence for me. So in seminary, church, and general conference, when a certain phrase stood out or I had a constant thought or feeling to do something, I wrote it down. It wasn’t until years later when I reread these entries that I realized God was talking to me when I was having a difficult time hearing Him.

When we approach general conference ready to pay attention and learn from the Spirit, we are showing God we want to hear Him, and we will receive guidance and peace for ourselves.

All too well do I know how difficult it is being in a home where everyone is going in different directions at once. I also remember running from that environment. All of that changed when our family started to separate. The oldest went to college, and even though she was only an hour away, we learned how much she meant to us. We started to communicate with each other. We started to say, “I love you.” With those simple realizations and with a little effort, we ended up with a quiet, relaxing home that my friends loved to come to.
Elder Christiansen, 20Missouri Independence Mission

Emily told Mama, “My blanket’s name is Pinkie.” Emily got her blanket when she was a baby. Now she was old enough to know her colors, and she had given her blanket a name. Pinkie was fuzzy in some places and silky in others. Emily took Pinkie with her everywhere, except to church. That was because Mama said, “In Sunbeams you need your hands for other things.”
Pinkie had gone with Emily to Grandpa’s house for Thanksgiving. Now Emily’s family sat in the car heading home. At first Emily colored. Then she played I Spy. But now it was dark and the only sound was the hum of the engine.
Emily rubbed Pinkie’s silky edge against her nose. Rubbing her nose with Pinkie helped Emily think beautiful thoughts.
Daddy slowed down and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
“What’s going on?” Mama asked.
“There was a crash,” Daddy said. “We need to see if we can help.”
In the light from the headlights Emily saw a smashed car. She also saw a family huddling outside of it. There was a little girl. She wasn’t wearing a coat.
Emily knew that if she were that little girl she would be scared. She would be cold.
Emily handed Daddy her blanket. “Please give Pinkie to that girl.”
“Are you sure?” Daddy asked.
Emily nodded. She loved Pinkie, but that little girl needed beautiful thoughts right now.

The General Authority who married Brother and Sister Hunter gave them some advice they took very seriously: Stay out of debt; never buy anything until you have the money to pay for it. They followed that counsel, sticking with it throughout their married life and teaching it to their children.
That counsel proved to be extremely valuable when the bank where Howard was employed failed during the Great Depression of the early 1930s. Out of work, but also out of debt, Brother Hunter quickly found other employment.

Jim Turner, an artist from the Lismore Ward in the Gold Coast Australia Stake, has achieved a milestone in his artistic journey. His oil painting The 1988 Bicentennial Naval Review will soon be on permanent display at the Royal Australian Navy Heritage Centre, the Maritime Museum of the Royal Australian Navy in Sydney. This monumental work, measuring 12 feet (3.6 m) long by 5 feet (1.5 m) high, includes a life-size portrait of Vice Admiral M. W. Hudson, who served as the Chief of Naval Staff in 1988.
The Bicentennial Naval Review was a historic event held in 1988 to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the First Fleet’s arrival in Sydney. This grand occasion saw ships from Australia and around the world gather in Sydney Harbour in a spectacular display of maritime history and tradition. It showcased the nation’s heritage and its connection to the sea.
Born in New South Wales, Brother Turner felt inspired by this event, recognizing its importance to Australian history. He was determined to create a work of art that would capture not only the grandeur of the naval review but also the spirit of unity it evoked.
Completed on November 4, 1988, The 1988 Bicentennial Naval Review was publicly exhibited only once, during a week-long exhibition that opened on December 3, 1988, by Senator Bronwyn Bishop. For years afterward, the painting awaited a permanent home where it could be appreciated by the public.
In 2024, Brother Turner was inspired to find a suitable home for his work. Through persistence and prayer, he contacted the Royal Australian Navy Heritage Centre. Although the museum was undergoing renovations, the centre accepted the painting for display in its new facility, which reopened in February 2025.
The museum will include Jim’s painting among its exhibits documenting the history of the Royal Australian Navy, from the First Fleet to the present day. Brother Turner’s painting will enrich the museum’s collection and the public’s understanding of this pivotal moment in Australia’s maritime history.
Brother Turner’s journey with this painting is a testimony of faith, persistence, and divine guidance.
Brother Turner reflects on the role of divine guidance throughout his journey. “I felt prompted to find a suitable home for people to view my painting of the Bicentennial Naval Review,” he said. “I have a firm testimony that if we do all that we possibly can, the Lord will provide the way and the means for us to accomplish whatever He has asked us to do.”
For Brother Turner, this painting is more than a depiction of a national event; it is a manifestation of faith and perseverance. He likens this experience to life’s daily challenges: “Be it a major work, like a 12-foot-long painting, or just completing simple daily tasks, [life is] made easier through the guidance of the Spirit.”

Recently we were reviewing a pile of job applications that measured almost three inches high. The applications represented dozens of heart-rendering pleas such as “I need this job,” “If I don’t get a job, I will have to quit school,” “I … I … I …”

True, they pulled our heart strings, but they were nonetheless rejects for one reason or another.

In the midst of our sorting-out process, a bold knock came on the office door. In walked a smiling, confident, well-groomed teenager who looked happy to be alive!

“Hi! May I take five minutes of your time?” he began.

At our nod of consent, he boldly continued, “My name is Jack Taylor, and you need me!”

Oh, sure; we silently eyed each other. What is this?

But he went on so sincerely and honestly that we couldn’t help but give our full attention.

“I come into your restaurant all the time, and I think it’s the greatest! But, you have one problem. More people need to know about your place. I really want to help you, and here’s one idea I have …”

He was so zealous about our cause and concerns, we sat back in amazement. Out of a hundred applicants, here was one who never said a word about his needs but only our needs. From a purely business point of view, we were impressed.

Jack went on to unfold his plan of dressing in Roaring 20s attire and going door-to-door all over town to tell people about our restaurant. He proposed that for every person who came in at his invitation, we pay him a certain amount—whatever we desired.

Did we hire him?

Of course! In mid-summer, when job openings were almost non-existent, Jack Taylor got a job.

It was only a few days later that a prominent local professor entered our door accompanied by his nine children and announced, “Jack sent me!”

True, Jack’s approach to us might have been somewhat brash, but the message he was sending us got through. His message wasn’t so much that he wanted a job as that he had the right attitude. During his employment with us, that attitude never changed. He always radiated a genuine concern for our best interest.

Illustration by Greg Newbold
A couple of months ago, I was talking to a friend about some struggles in my life. She was kind and listened to me, but after I told her everything, she asked me three questions: “Are you reading your scriptures daily?” I said no. “Are you praying daily?” I said no. She told me this was part of my problem and challenged me to read the Book of Mormon with an open heart and to pray about my questions before I read. I accepted her invitation to read and pray every day. Then she asked her third question.
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I finally said, “I see a naïve, lost boy.” That’s what I thought I saw, but she said I was wrong.
Every day for the next few weeks, I thought about that question. It bothered me that she said I was wrong. About what? I realized that I could figure it out if I had regular scripture study with meaningful prayer. It took me a while to establish a schedule where I was reading and praying on most days of the week, but I did.
A few weeks later, some thoughts came to me while I was mowing the lawn. They taught me about the real person I see in the mirror:
I see a young man who decided to come to this earth to face the fiercest evils and the darkest nights. I see a son of God, a child of Heavenly Father. I see a disciple of Jesus Christ, who will always help His followers. I see a young man with family and friends who will stand beside him.
I may feel lost and confused sometimes, but I don’t have to live life alone. Satan may try his hardest to succeed, but in the end he will fail. And in the end, I can see myself walking up to Heavenly Father and hearing Him say, “You have served me well, my son. Welcome home.”
When I had these thoughts, I immediately pulled out my phone and recorded what I’d felt, because I thought I’d forget by the time I found a pencil and paper. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t help but smile.
I told my friend what I had found out, and she was happy I had found the answer. I now understand my relationship with Heavenly Father and know that I never have to be alone.

G. K. Chesterton in an essay entitled “A Piece of Chalk” wrote of going into the countryside in the south of England to draw with his colored chalks—only to find, ruefully, that he was missing the color white. Being too far from a store to remedy the situation, he felt his expedition ruined until he suddenly realized that the rock upon which he sat was, in fact, white chalk. (In Robert K. Thomas, ed., The Joy of Reading, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1978, pp. 35–40).
There, in a Sussex meadow, he was “sitting on an immense warehouse of white chalk.” For him to think he had no chalk was like a chemist in the middle of the ocean looking for salt water to perform experiments or someone in the vast Sahara searching for sand to fill an hour glass. Many times the solutions to our problems await only our discovery that we already have the key to the answer. The need is for us to learn to use it effectively.

For a couple of weeks I had been noticing a small tremor in my right hand. I persuaded myself it was only stress. Raising seven children can be a challenge, but when five of those children have multiple disabilities, life can be overwhelming at times. My schedule was filled with doctors’ appointments, therapies, daily medication routines, and the constant challenge of helping children struggle with seizures, mental retardation, bipolar disorder, and congenital heart disease.
My husband, Ron, had recently been called as bishop of our ward. We were grateful for his opportunity to serve and prayed daily that he would be able to bless the lives of those in our ward. Little did I realize that we would be the ones receiving the blessings.
Finally, I could ignore the tremor no more and sought medical help. As I left the doctor’s office that day, my life had changed forever. Parkinson’s disease was the diagnosis. Questions and fears flooded my mind. How would the disease progress? How would I care for my family? How would I continue to support Ron in his new calling? I longed for answers and desperately needed peace and comfort. The Savior’s words came to my mind: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Over the years I had become comfortable with the idea that the Lord had given me my quota of trials; I thought my life would be spent caring for my children with their special needs. I did not resent this idea and even felt great peace and joy as I looked to my future. We had accepted the challenges and disabilities of both our sons, along with raising our two beautiful daughters. We even felt the strong desire to add to our family by adopting three more children with special needs. Each time we entered the adoption process, we experienced miracles as we were guided through each step of the way. There have been tremendous challenges but also tremendous blessings.
In the weeks following my diagnosis I often found myself on my knees, pleading with the Lord. I learned that Parkinson’s is a progressive disease and that I would continue to lose control of my muscles. The more I read, the more frightened I became. I spent many sleepless nights. I also felt an impression from the first words of the diagnosis that there would be no miracles to remove this trial from me and that I needed to learn something from this experience. I felt so alone and wondered if the Lord was displeased with me, if He still loved me.
Then one night, as Ron was getting ready to go to Mutual, there was a knock at our door. We opened the door and found a delicious meal left anonymously on our front porch. A loving note stated that every week on this night a dinner would arrive. As I tasted the goodness of this delicious meal, not only was my body fed, but my spirit also. I realized I am not alone and the Lord does love me. I tasted again of the sweet peace He has promised us. I was grateful for these dear secret angels who honored their baptismal covenants “to mourn with those that mourn” and “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). I knew that through the ministering of these “earthly angels” I would find the strength to make it through each day.
It has now been more than three years since we found that first dinner. Every Mutual night since then we have received a wonderful meal, always left anonymously on our front porch. Ward boundaries have changed, and people have moved in and out of our ward. But the meals continue to come. Often I have struggled with a particularly difficult day, forgetting it is our “Secret Angels Day.” And then the doorbell rings, and I find another delicious gift of love.
My disease continues to progress, and there are still many unanswered questions. But I know I am not alone. I have felt the peace that comes from trusting the Lord and accepting His will. I know that many of the trials we encounter in this life are for our good and help turn our weaknesses into strengths. I also know that we do not have to bear our trials alone. The Lord always answers our prayers, but often the answers come through those who are willing to serve and be His “secret angels.”

Compared with prices in the 1980s, food and merchandise were very inexpensive. Low prices were a blessing to the Saints, yet there were a significant number who lacked even pennies to purchase their needs. Hundreds fleeing from persecution in Missouri had lost all of their possessions, and many new converts came from backgrounds of poverty. Such people were often touched by the Prophet’s kindness and generosity, as he drew upon the resources of the store in their behalf. For example, Jane Elizabeth Manning, a freeborn black convert from Wilton, Connecticut, came to Nauvoo in the late fall of 1843 with her mother, Eliza, four brothers and sisters, a brother-in-law and sister-in-law, and Jane’s small son, Sylvester. They had walked nearly 800 miles: “We lay in bushes, and in barns and outdoors, and traveled until there was a frost just like a snow, and we had to walk on that frost. … I wanted to go to Brother Joseph.”
When the family arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet and his wife Emma hosted them in the Mansion House until they could find homes in which to live.
“When I [came to Nauvoo] I only had two things on me, no shoes nor stockings, wore them all out on the road. I had a trunk full of beautiful clothes, which I had sent around by [boat], and I was thinking of having them when I got to Nauvoo, and they stole them at St. Louis, and I did not have a rag of them. … One morning, before [Joseph] came in, I had been up to the landing and found all my clothes were gone. Well, I sat there crying. He came in and looked around. … To Sister Emma, he said, ‘go and clothe her up, go down to the store and clothe her up.’ Sister Emma did.” (“Joseph Smith, the Prophet,” Young Woman’s Journal, December 1905, pp. 551–52).

For my sixth birthday, I got some money from my friends and family. I put some of it in my mission-fund bank account, and my mummy gave me some of it to spend. My sister and I went to the toy shop, and she saw a toy that she wanted but did not have any money. So I spent my birthday money and bought the toy for my sister. I love my sister, and I know that Heavenly Father is happy when we sacrifice for one another.

“When I was five, my father was called on a mission. My mother and we three children missed him very much during the two years he was gone, but I also know that the Lord blessed our family. One day my younger brother fell under a piece of moving farm equipment, a disc harrow. His head was seriously cut, and the doctor came to our home. While my brother lay on the kitchen table, the doctor sewed him up and told us that he wouldn’t live much longer. That was on Wednesday. When the doctor came to check my brother again on Saturday, we were playing at my uncle’s place. My brother was climbing around in the top of an apricot tree. The doctor took the bandages off my brother’s head and was amazed that the wound had healed. It was truly a miracle.”

Even though Carrie Peters of the Newport-Gwent Ward, Cardiff Wales Stake, has struggled with poor health, she chose to use her projects to develop her abilities and the talents of others.
Carrie organized a ward entertainment night, attended by more than 100 people. The event turned out to be such a great missionary tool that she organized a show for the Tregwillym Lodge elderly home the next year.
Her performers delighted listeners with Broadway songs and ended the program with the hymn “I Believe in Christ” (Hymns, no 134). Carrie’s living testimony of this song touched many hearts that night. She had just been discharged from the hospital 48 hours before the performance. It’s no surprise Carrie has since been called as her ward’s cultural arts specialist.

Mr. Samuels smiled as he carefully steered the big school bus along the busy streets. It was the first day following a holiday vacation, and he was glad that the bus was running smoothly. When he had entered it this morning, he’d discovered that one of the rear windows had been left open. There were twigs and dried grass on the floor, but he found no signs of any damage.
A little later Eric and Steve, third-graders at Lakeview School, were sitting together near the rear of the bus. Suddenly they saw a pigeon flying alongside it.
“That pigeon wants to ride with us,” said Steve.
“He’ll have to get a bus pass,” Eric joked.
When the bus stopped for traffic lights, the pigeon perched on a tree branch in easy view of the boys’ closed window. When the traffic moved forward again, the bird kept pace with the bus.
“It not only wants to ride this bus, it also wants to sit in our seat,” Eric said, laughing.
The pigeon began squawking as it flew. People on the street turned and stared. Motorists in passing cars pointed at the funny sight. Some of them honked their car horns. The children on the bus howled with laughter.
“Maybe it sees its reflection in the window and thinks it’s another bird,” said Steve.
Eric waved his hands at the pigeon. “Shoo, bird! Fly away! You’re causing a traffic jam.”
The determined pigeon kept flying alongside them.
When the bus finally arrived at Lakeview School, Eric reached under the seat to get his books. “Mr. Samuels!” he shouted. “I’ve solved the mystery! There’s another pigeon under the seat, and it looks as if it’s been building a nest, because there’s a lot of grass and twigs down here.”
“So that’s it,” the bus driver replied. “I see now—they must have come in through the window I found open this morning. I guess the birds wanted to make their home in our bus. But they can’t live here, that’s for sure.”
Eric and Steve ran to get Mrs. Kappas, the principal, and Mr. Carter, the school custodian. Soon Mr. Carter brought a ladder, and Eric slipped a piece of cardboard under the partially built nest and handed it to Mr. Carter. Then the custodian climbed the ladder and carefully placed the nest on a sheltered ledge under the eaves of the school-house.
“I hope the pigeons will like it there,” Steve told Eric.
At recess time the children saw that the pigeons did like their new home. Busily they swooped back and forth, carrying bits of this and that to finish building their nest.
Eric noticed that one pigeon seemed to be resting a great deal between swoops. Turning to Steve, Eric said with a grin, “Well, I guess if I’d flown as much as that pigeon has this morning, I’d be tired too!”