text: Ed Mason of Chattanooga, Tennessee, had loved wild birds since childhood. He enjoyed watching them eat the seeds he put out each morning. "Now there's a new one," he said to himself, leaning closer to the window. "What could it be?" It looked to Ed like a female house finch, but with a large, rounded crest—more like a cluster of small feathers. The bird's rumpled, maybe molting. That's odd, she's picking up seeds with the side of her beak instead of the tip. When the bird came closer, Ed saw that the "crest" was an injury. The poor little thing must have crashed into a window, he thought. I bet she damaged her beak too and that's why she's eating that way.
  
  Just then the bossy Jays returned and the smaller birds scattered. I hope the wee finch will be able to recover. At least she can still fly. If only she can get enough to eat with that damaged beak.
  
  The other birds came and went, but the lumpy injured bird lingered as she struggled to eat the seeds. He'd read that injured and sick birds were often worse off than they acted and looked. Their lives depended on their appearing normal to predators. Ed had rescued some wild birds over the years. I hope this one's not worse than she looks. I could have helped her, but I wasn't there to pick her up when she crashed.
  
  The next morning, Ed watched Lumpy, as he'd begun to call her, struggle with the seeds. She's not going to last long enough to get better if she can't eat, he thought. He put out sunflower bits and bread crumbs and went back inside to watch. She arrived with the other small birds, and he was happy to see she had no trouble eating the new offering.
  
  The following morning, Lumpy was eating, but looked more unkempt. Can she groom her feathers with a damaged beak? Ed knew that feather grooming was essential for flight. Days went by, and he worried that she wasn't getting any better, but she didn't appear to be getting worse. Was it healing under the lump? It looked the same.
  
  In a day or two, he saw that poor little Lumpy was moving more slowly and ate and sat with her feathers puffed up. Damn! She might not make it after all. The next morning, the bird flew in slowly, low to the ground. As if that had taken the last of her strength, she sat where she landed, feathers puffed, and didn't move. She walked slowly forward, ate a few sunflower bits, and sat again for several minutes. This doesn't look good at all, he thought. I hate this. That bird has suffered so long and tried so hard. She'd put up a fight but it didn't look like she was going to win this one.
  
  Ed didn't see her the next day. I could have missed her, he told himself. She might still be alive. She wasn't out there the following day either. Well, it looks like she didn't make it, he thought. He'd felt close to this little bird as he'd become involved in her daily struggle, watching her small victories and the stoic acceptance of her limitations. He sighed. Well, at least she's not suffering any more.
  
  On the morning of the third day, a rumpled bird in the group caught his eye. It looked like Lumpy, but was fairly energetic and didn't have any bumps. He wasn't sure. Could it be? Surely not, she'd been so bad the last time he saw her. As he watched, the bird tipped her head and picked up a seed with the side of her beak. Ed sprang from his chair excitedly. It is her! She's alive. How can that be? How did she do it? She had not only survived, she seemed almost normal. Like other wild creatures she had the gift of a simple, innate resourcefulness. She never gave up. Ed Mason smiled to see little Lumpy recovering, looking neater, bright-eyed, and alert. And it pleased him to think that in some small way, he had helped her pull it off.