Nothing is more striking than the efforts of the maternal birds to tempt their young to make the first experiment of trusting themselves to their wings. The nightingale flutters around her nest holding an insect in her bill at a little distance to draw her young to the edge of the nest and to incite them through their appetite to make the first effort with their wings. The Iceland driver offers a still more striking spectacle of maternal solicitude. The bird builds its nest on the steepest summits of the mountains near the shores of the sea. As soon as her young are fledged, she ceases to bring them food. But she continues to visit them, to flatter about the nest, to show them the power of her wings, and to invite them to follow her. The younger bird, oppressed by hunger, approaches the edge of the precipice, hesitates, and finally falls into the air. Its wings are too small to sustain it, and it would dash upon the rooks below. The mother summons the aid of the male. They spread their wings in concert a little beneath their young, to allow free play to their wings.

Thus they gently let the bird down to the shore, crowds of their kind assemble round the young bird, and raise cries of congratulation at the view of this new companion, that maternal love has emboldened to the first attempt at flight.