As soon as the first harbingers of spring arrive we take to the forest. Life is just awakening in the northern woods. The winter has been long and severe. Following the course of the creek we see large cakes of ice thrown topsy-turvy all over the meadow, where they have been carried by the spring freshet. In the gorge block after block is piled; they are lying in every conceivable position. The spring sun is busy undoing what the hard winter has accomplished. The cakes of crystal ice are fast losing their deep blue color, becoming “rotten” and breaking off in huge chunks with a report that fairly startles one. The newly-exposed ice-prisms glisten in the sun like so many jewels. To add to the attractions of the landscape, the creek is lined with stately sycamores,—here and there a lonely buttonball clings by a slender stem to the parent tree, as though loath to break away. Or perhaps it is hopeful that by some imaginary elixir of life it may renew its youth and live the spring and summer over again, forgetful that on the verge of inaugurating a new cycle of existence,—the birth of another generation,—it has before it the great consummation of all life. Where the hills furnish a dark background the old tree stands out, weird and majestic, its limbs white and naked after shedding their cinnamon-like bark. It glistens in the sunlight almost as much as the ice-prisms. The high water is busy undermining the bank of the stream and an occasional cave-in appears, as though some muskrat surprised in his foraging were making a hasty departure for his tunnelled home.

The woods are ringing with the song of the cardinals (Cardinalis cardinalis cardinalis), and just as soon as you enter their “beat” they seem to take notice and are ready to fight any intruder. It is a noteworthy fact that the “sphere of influence” of a particular cock is limited to a portion of a tract of woodland as well defined as though surrounded by a fence. If you can conceal yourself in his zone and imitate his call, the bird will approach very near. In my younger days [Pg 249]
[Pg 250]many were the cardinals I trapped in the following manner: In the mating season we would take a caged bird into the woods, the cage covered from the time we left home until we reached the woods. Selecting a likely place, we set our net, and attached a rope which led to a blind constructed of boughs put together as naturally as possible. Then when all was ready we lifted the cover of the cage. The sudden emergence from darkness to light seemed to fill the very soul of the caged bird with gladness, and even before we could conceal ourselves behind the blind it would break forth into the sweetest melodies, filling the woods with its songs, as though once again free in its erstwhile haunts. Ere the first notes die away in the distance, like an echo comes the answer from the proprietary lord of that particular section of woodland, as though he seemed to say: “Some miscreant has entered my shady bowers to entice my fair one away, so I’ll teach him a lesson and drive him out of my domain.” Again the voice of the caged bird peals forth in a loud, clear whistling call, but I have no doubt the notes are not so sweet to the suspicious wild bird, for he is answering in an angry tone. In the meantime the wild bird is cautiously advancing, flitting from limb to limb. If he comes from the direction of the blind, he may be so near that you can distinctly see the bristled rictus and black mask on his face, the crested top, and glowing red body. Presently he sees the captive bird, makes a dive for it, and hangs onto the wires, trying to get hold of the intruder, picking and striking through the narrow openings so excitedly that he does not notice the net being pulled over him. What loyalty to his mate we see in this little bird! Thus many cardinals are caught. If the other bird does not encroach on their beat they will not answer to the call, but by shifting the cage even fifty feet or less, it may enter the domain of another and then he will show fight even to the death.

The piping of the cardinal is shrill at times, again soft, mellow, and soothing to the ear. He is a perfect vocalist and is known as one of the best whistlers among the feathery tribes; indeed, by some he is called the American nightingale. At times when he ends up his song with “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” I repeat the words, agreeing absolutely with him.

He shows some strange antics occasionally. Once we found a nest built in a crab tree about three feet from the ground. When we first found it there were four light blue eggs blotched with liver-colored spots, laid in a loosely-built nest of rootlets, grass, and grapevine bark. About a week later when we visited it the nest was empty. Looking toward the ground by chance, I saw a little bird “in the down” apparently without life. Lifting it up in my hand, by close observation I noticed that it still breathed. We put the bird into the nest, went away, and returned in about thirty minutes, when to our surprise we found the nestling was gone again! Query, did the mother bird carry away its offspring to some place of safety where it would not be disturbed?

On another occasion we found a nest in the top of a grapevine. We drew down the vine, photographed the nest, and restored the nest to its original position. Calling the following week I found the mother bird had incubated the brood as though nothing had happened, but the young were taken from the nest as soon as they could be moved and some days before they would ordinarily have been allowed to leave home. Although the cardinal is naturally shy and retiring, at times he will permit one to get very close. I am glad to think that in many of the States this beautiful bird is increasing under the protection of the law.

While sitting on a moss-covered log enjoying the balmy breezes of spring, the “dee, dee, dee” notes of the tufted titmouse (Parus bicolor) came to my ear. What hardy little birds they are! The coldest winter of the north does not affect them. They are fearless of man at times, and if you keep quiet they will flit about from place to place, alternately disclosing to you now their ashy blue backs, now their dull white, russet-flanked under-parts, as they swing from twig to twig, scanning each little crevice for a choice morsel of insect life.

When the first warm rays hatch the winged insects, the tragedy of the woods begins. A little cream-colored butterfly just out of its winter garb is on the wing, floating gracefully in the air among the leafless trees. The titmouse, with his bright eye ever on the alert, spies the insect, makes a sprightly dart, and seldom misses his mark. Then he perches on a limb with the fly and, like a bird of prey, takes hold with bill and feet and tears his victim apart, and as the remnants of the little wings float slowly to the ground, he feeds on the body.

The indigo bunting (Passerina cyanea) with its exquisite lay makes its abode very attractive to bird fanciers. In the mating season he can be seen perched on the topmost twig of one of the graceful drooping limbs of the elm bush, a little blue ball of feathers, throat expanded, pouring forth sweet music. If an instrument could be invented to record and reproduce the melody as he delivers it in the stillness of the morning when the little songster is at his best, it would become a very popular air. The indigo is frequently kept in captivity, but loses all the sweetness of song and the little male soon drops his beautiful livery and dons a distasteful shabby color, lacking even the somber luster of the female. During the period of mating, the cock-bird can be trapped very easily by using a trap cage with a bird in the lower compartment. As a boy, I have placed a trap cage on my head, walked under the tree where the wild bird was singing, with my mouth made a few kissing sounds, whereupon the bird would fly down into the cage and try to get through the wires to the captive. If some wheat grains were placed on the “paddle,” the wild bird would invariably light on it first, and picking up the grains would spring the trap and be caught while the cage was on my head.

In constructing their nest they usually select a dense thicket and frequently build near the ground, where they deposit four or five bluish-white eggs not much bigger than a large pea. The cowbird (Molothrus ater), which is a sort of parasite, does not build a nest of its own, but lays its eggs in the nest of some other bird. In this respect it shows its wonderful instinct by selecting a smaller bird as foster-mother for its offspring. By experience they have been taught that the larger birds invariably dispose of the eggs by removing them from the nest. It frequently selects the bunting’s nest in which to deposit its brown spotted eggs, which are much larger. The cowbird, being of a larger species, grows much faster, and before long the foundling fills the little nest, forcing the rightful owners out of home and board. On one occasion I visited a nest and found it almost upset, with the “big cow” filling the whole nest. On the upper edge perched one little bunting, almost featherless, shivering in the cold. From underneath the “parasite” could be seen the head of the other, panting for breath and nearly stifled. We removed the cowbird, straightened up the nest, replaced the rightful owners of the house, and perched the cowbird nearby on a bush. We then went off a short distance and watched developments, and to our surprise the little male bunting fed the cowbird first. It was strange to see the youngster, as large as his foster parent, open his mouth so wide you could imagine he was getting ready to swallow the old bird,—indeed he looked as though he could, rapacious pirate offspring that he was. On telling the story to a friend, he remarked, “Well, how do you account for the foolish old man neglecting his own offspring and feeding the cowbird first?” I cannot answer that, unless the old fellow was proud of his big son.

The red-eyed vireo (Vireosylva olivacea) loves solitude. During the nesting season it seeks some dense thicket, selects a fork on a drooping limb, and constructs its wonderful basket-shaped, pensile nest. Intertwining about the fork a silky material for the basis of the structure, they put together with grasses, lichens, and plant fibres a wonderful little home for their progeny. When working away at building they are very cheerful, almost continually singing a sweet, pleasant warble, as though haranguing the dwellers of the silent places, hence their pseudonym, “preacher.” Very frequently in the dense foliage nearby skulks another member of the feathery tribe, watching every movement of the industrious pair, and now she gloats over them when, their work of art complete, they flit from limb to limb, closely observing the masterpiece and softly twittering their satisfaction, as though to say, “Well done.” Tired and hungry after their labors they wander away in search of food, singing cheerily as they twitch their heads now this way, now that, seeking a worm or insect. When they have gone, the somber-gowned, parasitic mate of a polygamist makes a bee-line for the nest, hastily drops a large speckled egg in the neat little basket, then quits the thicket and returns afield to the flock from which she came, leaving her ignominious progeny to be hatched and reared by the foster parents. When the vireos return, imagine the little red eyes looking with surprise at the egg that almost fills the cradle. They have not the strength, even if it occurred to them, to tumble the egg overboard, and unlike the yellow warblers, who sometimes build another nest on top of the egg, they resignedly proceed with the family duties.

The cowbird is a parasite of the worst kind; it lays its egg, not on the doorstep, like some foundlings, but in the bedchamber. The period of incubation being shorter than with most other birds, the egg is hatched sooner, the bird grows more rapidly, and consequently young molothrus frequently stifles the rightful owners of the home. One by one the vireo fledglings die and are carried from the nest by the mourning parents, and so the survivor flourishes and grows fat, rocked in the cradle by the gentle breezes and under the care and protection of the little red-eyed vireos. The vireos are noted as good providers and protectors. During incubation they are fearless and loath to leave their eggs,—at times indeed, will permit you to approach the nest within two feet and photograph. We made several attempts to get the picture on page 260 but without success, until with a hand-mirror as a reflector we threw the rays of the sun on the bird. The light seemed to bewilder her and had the same effect as a “flash-light” has on a moose or deer in the stillness of a dark night. Thus we were able to take a photograph by time-exposure.

It is very seldom that a mixed family is raised. Usually the children of the home perish, and then how the young cowbird does continually call to the foster parents, “hungry, hungry, I’m hungry,” and how the little birds must work to satisfy the fast-growing changeling. At last one day the parents find their darling has disappeared; their summer’s work is finished; four cunning little vireo nestlings have met an untimely fate, and one arrogant young cowbird is well started upon his infamous career. Despite his careful rearing his blood will tell just as surely as if he were human.

Over yonder, a stone’s throw from my sleeping-porch, stands the stump of a hardwood tree, now soft from years of exposure to the elements. First the slender twigs decaying dropped one by one, then limb after limb, until all that remained of the noble tree, the growth of years, was this stump, where one bright morning in March I heard from my bed the familiar tapping sound characteristic of the woodpecker family. It was a flicker (Colaptes auratus luteus). The mating season was due, the ardent lovers were busy making holes here and there, as is customary, until finally they accomplished one to their liking and began their domestic duties in earnest. Some weeks later, in answer to my tapping on the stump, a head appeared at the door looking from side to side for the cause of the noise. It was the father of the family who reconnoitered the situation. The characteristic broad streaks of black throat feathers, commonly referred to as his “dark mustache,” served to identify him. For some time we had suspected the young were soon to leave their home. Tom climbed the tree in search of “data,” for the accumulation of which he is quite eager, but before he got half way up, shouted, “There goes one of the kids,—there goes another.” While their intentions were good, through lack of training “the kids” soon came to the ground. It is said of the flicker family that the parents coax and coax the young birds to leave the hole, but the latter are very reluctant to do so, and at times the parents are constrained to resort to starving or practically kicking them out. In the hole three were left. Tom brought them out and took them to a slanting tree. It was interesting to watch them. Like all climbers, they have two toes in front and two behind and in climbing are assisted by their rigid tail feathers. Tom was kept busy trying to arrange them within focus of the camera. For some time it was impossible to make them stay “posed”; they insisted on climbing the tree. After a while they got tired and then posed nicely for their picture. During the whole time they called in plaintive tone and the parent birds answered as they hovered around. After being photographed the birds were returned to their home, where they seemed well satisfied to remain.

This member of the woodpecker family has some individuality. While the other woodpeckers stay in the trees, he spends a great deal of his time on the ground, some of it in feeding, and some of it certainly in amusement. He finds the latter on tree and ground alike. I have seen them going through various contortions and maneuvers, some of which closely resembled the figures in a minuet. On one occasion I witnessed a fight between two males on the ground. How they parried, juked, and dodged to avoid the sally of the adversary, until finally one got the better of the other and the vanquished took to flight. Every spring for several years a flicker takes up his abode near the home of a friend of mine, who relates with a great deal of interest how the bird attracts attention by visiting at frequent intervals a tin box on top of an arc-light pole, where he takes much delight in spending considerable time drumming away, as though the musician of the regiment were practicing his favorite tattoo.

Of all the birds of Pennsylvania the male scarlet tanager (Piranga erythromelas) is the most beautifully and attractively colored. Seldom seen by the occasional visitor to the woods, like a “Will o’ the wisp” he flits through the thick foliage, uttering his peculiar “chirp churr.” I remember well finding my first nest of the tanager after several years of search. On a horizontal limb of an elm tree about ten feet from the ground I noticed a few twigs and roots placed on the limb. So frail was the structure that even the sunlight shone through. Although I saw the female fluttering around considerably disturbed, I did not give it much thought, but left the location, only to return again to investigate. Imagine my agreeable surprise when, on climbing the tree, I saw four handsome bluish-green speckled eggs in the frail structure of twigs and rootlets. I have no doubt the scanty nest is a protection, for it requires a close observer to distinguish it as the living habitation of a bird.

The green heron (Butorides virescens) dwells in colonies at times, and frequently in solitary pairs along creeks and ponds. They build their nests on small trees and bushes. The same birds will build in one locality for years if unmolested, and even if disturbed will probably find a site nearby the following year. I remember finding a nest built on a small black-haw bush about ten feet from the ground. We visited the nest frequently until five bluish-green eggs were laid in the frail-looking platform of twigs. Its fragile appearance is deceptive, however, for the nest is realty strongly constructed amongst the limbs upon which it rests. An egg collector found the nest and removed two of the eggs, but the mother bird continued to incubate. We cut the limb off and removed the nest to the ground to photograph, then returned it, made it fast as before, and the bird hatched out a brood successfully from the three remaining eggs. One day upon visiting the nest I found one of the occupants in the act of swallowing a frog. All that remained of the frog was a leg sticking out of the nestling’s mouth. It was not long before the bird disgorged the legs, or all that was undigested of them. About a week later I visited the nest, and looking up saw three long necks and three heads sticking up over the edge. Before long they started one by one to leave the nest, stepping rather ceremoniously along the limbs towards the foliage at the top. Occasionally one would miss his foothold and partially lose his balance, but by the use of wings and beak would right himself. Often when in distress and hastening to get away, the young herons will use their heads and necks as a parrot does its beak, “chinning” themselves upon a limb and drawing up the body by main strength. These birds when frightened disgorge partially digested food; and because of their predilection to the generous distribution of ornithological whitewash at frequent intervals as they fly, they well deserve the name of “chalk-line.” While climbing the trees on several occasions when visiting the homes of these birds, I found to my sorrow that “discretion is the better part of valor.” Although they seem to be extremely shy, they will return from time to time to the neighborhood of their nests. They do not often approach closely, however, while a visitor is near, and on such occasions remain at some distance craning their necks curiously in every direction. They seldom utter a sound unless startled, when with a hoarse “quawk” and a shrilly harsh cry, they hastily fly away.

The rose-breasted grosbeak (Zamelodia ludoviciana) is one of the handsomest of the finch family, and also one of the most useful to the farmer. The grosbeak’s chief diet is bugs and other insects, the potato bug being a favorite morsel in their menu. They usually build their nest on a bush and are very devoted to their home, so much so that when eggs are removed they continue to lay and incubate the remaining eggs. On one occasion in photographing a nest containing two eggs it was necessary to pull the slendor bush over and tie it within range of the camera. The cord snapped, releasing the sapling and the eggs were thrown out and destroyed, much to our annoyance. On the following week when we returned we found the mother bird had laid two more eggs in the nest. The birds raised their small brood as though nothing had happened. I have visited many grosbeaks’ nests, and excepting on one or two occasions I have not seen the female incubating. This duty seems to be performed more often by the male.

The blue-gray gnat-catchers (Polioptila cÆrulea) are among the birds who build their nests early. When building is on, the nests are very easy to find, but ere the young are hatched out the foliage affords effective concealment. Their squeaky voices attract your attention, and looking towards the very top of the tree you can see them flitting from limb to limb. Before long, one or the other draws nearer and nearer the nest; then a quick flight, and there it is in the partly constructed home. Watching with the field-glass you can see them constructing the most beautiful nest in all bird architecture, save possibly that of the ruby-throated hummingbird, which builds a similar home. They usually select an elm tree, and at a height of thirty to fifty feet saddle the nest on the under or horizontal branch of a fork. Thus the branching system of the elm is peculiarly adapted to their style of architecture. It furnishes a shelter from storm and hawk overhead, and prowling boy or bird of prey in the brush underneath. The nest in the illustration accompanying the text was taken upon an oak, which my experience leads me to believe is an unusual site. How interesting to watch both male and female building their nest in the crotch! After several days’ work the structure begins to take shape and the master touches are being put to the little cup of lichens, moss, and grass. Alighting in it the builders crane their necks and with their long bills tuck in the moss and lichens all around, much as a mother tucks the clothing around her sleeping babe in the cradle. When all is complete the five little speckled eggs are deposited and incubation begins. The parent is quite plucky and resents any intrusion upon the sanctity of her home. On one occasion I saw a downy woodpecker come too close to a gnat-catcher’s nest. Like a streak of light she shot out, a mix-up followed, and the downy made haste to get away. Another time a redstart was taught the lesson that it did not pay to “hang around” this little bird’s home.

In the early spring we hear a concert of sweet voices coming from a flock of songsters in the summit of the elm, their favorite tree. Their period of love-making is long, as all their brothers and sisters of the same order have with very few exceptions finished their family duties before the American goldfinch (Astragalinus tristis) looks about and selects for his nest the fork of a bush or tree handy to some thistly field. Here the family of three to six young is reared. From his fondness for thistle seeds he gets his common name, “thistle-bird.” As the thistles ripen he can be seen picking away as he clings to the burr in every conceivable position, releasing the “witches” that float gracefully off with the gentle breezes over the field; regardless is he of the bees that tend the rose-purple flower-heads scattered here and there among the ripe thistle-tops. Over yonder a colony of the delicate blossoms of the “Queen Anne’s lace” is quite conspicuous. Hovering around are many flies and bees. A red-spotted purple butterfly lights gracefully on the plant, folding and unfolding its beautifully colored wings. He is safe from any molestation on the part of the goldfinch, who is essentially a seed-eater. Thus it is that these two highly-decorated creatures may often be seen gathering food side by side in the meadow.

There are some advantages in late building, and especially to the thistle-birds. They get rid of the parasite cowbird, whose season for propagation must needs be earlier in order to afford sufficient time for development; for the young cowbird is more phlegmatic in temperament and slower in growth, nor does he stay with us so late as the young goldfinch. Again, the thistle-birds, being seed-eaters, find a more bountiful supply of food as the July days approach.

In the air they are readily distinguished by their undulatory flight. Frequently repeating their bubbling, laughter-like call, they pass overhead, describing circle after circle as though compelled thus to work off some of the buoyancy of their nature. The essence of cleanliness, they love to bathe in the purling waters of the brook where the pebbles lend their smoothness to the ever-rippling streamlet; there in some secluded spot during the sweltering weather of July and August the little birds delight to splash the crystal waters over their lemon-colored plumage. In my earlier days I have often caught them in the following manner: We would thrust a branch into the ground at one of the bathing places, and on the side of the stream from which by prior observation it was ascertained that the birds usually approached. They would alight on this branch as they came to the water, and after a while would become accustomed to linger on it before descending to the bath. In a few days we would cut pliant tips of the willow, smear them with bird-lime, and by means of slits cut in the branch would arrange the besmeared twigs high enough that when the bird alighted the limed twigs stuck to his breast feathers and swung around underneath, sticking the wing fast to his side so that the bird could not move. Invariably it would fall to the ground, unable in the case of the smaller birds either to walk or fly, and thus became an easy prey. Of course this was a boyhood prank, and my love to have the songster with me at home led me to place him in captivity. My ideas have changed and to-day I love the birds best in their natural haunts among the environments in which they sing the sweetest, their plumage is the finest, and where liberty of flight adds to their grace and charm.

In selecting the place to trap the birds where they go to bathe, one must bear in mind that some birds will frequent one place, some birds another. We would set out a line of traps some distance apart. In going from place to place we gave the birds time to visit in our absence. If perchance a bird disturbed the twigs, we always knew it, for we kept the number of the smeared twigs set on each branch. If a twig were missing and no bird in sight, on looking around we were sure to find the bird, if small, somewhere near the branch, or in case of larger birds, some distance away, for while the smaller birds were hopelessly entangled, the larger ones could walk but could not fly, and frequently got away by going through the grass and working rid of the small willow twig.

Among the first harbingers of spring the red-wing blackbirds (Agelaius phoeniceus) are conspicuous among the swamps and meadows, where they gather in flocks. The birds build their nests among the cat-tails, willows, and small bushes along the margin of swamps and meadows. As you approach they warn you of their disapproval in anxious tones. In a short time, however, they cease their noise and fly from point to point, lighting on the slender top of cat-tail, limb or weed, gracefully swaying backward and forward with the gentle breezes. It is thus they show their beautiful wings to the best advantage. Among the cat-tails they love to build their nest from one to three feet above the water. A coarse grass is used to bind the nest to the stock and within this is constructed a bulky basket of weeds and grass, in which they deposit four or five whitish, bluish, or greenish eggs, fantastically marked with dots, scrawls, and blotches, resembling some of the illegible hieroglyphics of the past ages.

My opportunity to study the ways of the cliff swallow (Petrochelidon lunifrons) has been very limited. My young friend Tom wrote me the birds were at work, a colony being busy building their odd-shaped nests on the rafters of a cow barn. When I visited the place I found the nests were built quite close to each other. How the birds did scold when we approached, darting around and around at first, but, gradually quieting down, they disappeared! In the meantime we were trying to get a snap-shot of a bird entering the neck of the nest. The nests were constructed of small pellets of mud, and were gourd-shaped, lined with grass and feathers. There they laid their four or five white speckled eggs. I understood this was the second year in succession they had built in this barn, but the following year they selected a barn some distance away. How conspicuous the rufous rump appeared when they entered the nest! They never remained long, but were off again, always on the wing. They entered the frail structures like fairies, touching the opening lightly, entering easily, then reappearing, to be off again on the wing. Sometimes they stopped for a moment at the mouth, clogging the entrance entirely with the body. As some writer has said, the bird is known by its “crescent-shaped frontlet shining like a moon,” hence its specific Latin name “lunifrons,”—moon-brow. One need not draw far on his imagination to think that the moon on her brow dispenses light for the mother bird to see the little mouths as she feeds her young in the “darksome cave.”

The song sparrow (Melospiza melodia) is among the first to return to its summer home. What a cheerful, fascinating little fellow he is as he perches on the fence post, or “any old place,” pouring forth his lightsome, varied songs! Clothed in his somber brown suit, he is instantly recognized by the dark throat patch. There is no regularity in what they do, or how, where, or when they do it. They build nests on the ground and in bushes, bulky or sparse, lined with horse hairs or otherwise, and lay eggs irregularly speckled. They begin to build their nests about the time the trillium is peeping through the ground, and the brood are ready to leave their home when the trillium is in full blossom. How delighted the children are when, if perchance out gathering flowers, they see the hasty flight of the mother bird as she quits her carefully concealed nest, and parting the leaves, there they find a family of fledglings, mouths wide open, waiting for the return of the mother with food to satisfy their wants! One day I found a song sparrow’s nest in a small catalpa tree. On closer examination I noticed a young bird hanging by the neck, dead. I have no doubt that when the bird was ready to leave the nest it became entangled in the horse hair, for a loop was found around its neck, and when the little youngster, in its endeavors to release itself, tumbled overboard, it was strangled to death.

A large percentage of the nests of the wood thrush (Hylocichla mustelina) are destroyed or abandoned from various causes. When incubation is begun the mother bird is very loath to leave the nest and will permit you to come very near. The accompanying photograph was obtained after many failures. Day by day we approached nearer and nearer until finally the bird allowed us to set the kodak within two feet of the nest, and the click of the shutter did not disturb her, although she seemed to quiver as if in great fear.

These birds love solitude, and how charming to listen to their sweet melodies coming from the depths of the woodland! Often in building their nest they select some limb or fork of a sapling near a path frequented by lovers of the woods. The place, method, and material chosen by them make it quite easy to find their home. It is built of coarse grass, which usually streams down over the limb, while paper is frequently used in the formation of the lower and outer part of the nest, rendering it quite conspicuous. Various causes, such as hawks, owls, and snakes, contribute to the destruction of a large proportion of these nests.

One day we were walking through a strip of woods that lay along a babbling brook, wending our way towards a wood thrush’s nest which on the occasion of our last visit contained several eggs. When we came to the nest we found the eggs had been removed, and we left, wondering what agency was responsible. A short distance from the nest we saw a large black snake gliding through the grass toward a rotten stump about ten feet high. I set after him and he climbed a big locust tree, on which he paused for a moment at a height of some six feet from the ground. Then when disturbed he slipped over to a hollow stump, which had grown alongside from the same base, and to our surprise proceeded to enter a knothole that seemed far too small for him. Not to be outdone, we pried the stump from the main trunk and found the snake coiled like a watch spring tightly against the inner walls of the hollow base. From this position he had to be pried, inch by inch, while I pulled him out by the tail and dragged him into an open field nearby, where he could be photographed. We placed a limb in the ground at an angle, but although we tried many times, the snake refused to crawl up. Finally we got the original stump, placed it in the ground, started Mr. Snake toward it, and he, immediately recognizing his former retreat, gracefully crawled up the tree.

The wood thrush builds its nest anywhere from two to twelve feet from the ground and on almost any kind of bush or tree. They are not over-sensitive if one disturbs the nest. In order to get the accompanying photograph it was necessary to remove the nest from its lofty position some twelve feet above the ground to a limb about two feet high. After taking the picture of the nest with the four eggs, we returned it to its original place. The following week we called and found three of the eggs hatched. We removed the nest and after photographing returned it, and the birds remained until full-fledged, as though nothing had happened to their childhood home.

How elegantly dressed the American redstart (Setophaga ruticilla) appears on his arrival from his winter home! The costume of his wife is not so flaming, but is nevertheless very attractive. How active they seem, flitting from place to place, at times having all the characteristics of the flycatcher and again all the marks of the sylvan warblers they are! Proud as a peacock, he spreads his pretty tail as much as to say to his woodland neighbors, “You can’t match me for grace and beauty.” And well may he be proud of his graceful elegance and his achievements in procuring his food, for he is one of the most charming and energetic of the insectivorous birds. He is a creature of action, always on the move, lively and alert, getting all that is coming to him in quick succession. The nest is built in the fork of a tree or on some horizontal limb, and is constructed of rootlets and twigs in a skillful manner. Often plant-down and vegetable-silks are woven into the cup much after the fashion of the vireo’s idea. It is frequently adorned on the outside with lichens and other substances tending toward obliterative coloration. If approached, the birds flit from limb to limb in a nervous manner, much excited, and at times appearing as though ready to strike an intruder. When frightened from the nest they will return if one stands off at some distance.

Down on the edge of a group of dead trees a pair of red-headed woodpeckers (Melanerpes erythrocephalus) were working away at a height of about twenty feet, getting ready for their anticipated brood. Tom, a boy of fourteen years, came along and noticed the couple at work. They were taking their turns methodically at intervals of twenty minutes or thereabouts. Later the birds completed the excavated cavity and the female had proceeded fairly well with her maternal duties. Tom climbed the tree to see how she was getting along. He found two eggs in the nest. Because of this intrusion or some other reason, the birds abandoned the nest and eggs and selected another stump not far from the first, where they proceeded along the same lines until they had excavated another hole to their liking, and the mother bird laid three pearly-white eggs which in due time she hatched.

Now the birds were busy gathering insects to feed their progeny. A short distance from their home was an abandoned tennis-court, grown up with grass. This seemed to be the favorite feeding-ground of the male parent. For hours we watched him coming and going, always alighting on the net-post where he kept a lookout for insects. Every few minutes he would take a rapid flight to the ground and again return to the post with food, then by an easy course to the young. To follow him with the eye in flight conveyed the idea of one continuous line of red, white, and blue. One day while we were watching the tree stump a flicker alighted on it near the hole. Like a flash came the parent bird from some place nearby, made a dart at the flicker, and soon put him to rout.

The brown thrasher (Harporhynchus rufus) is an interesting member of the feathery tribe who dwells in the solitude of some thicket, where he is at home among the underbrush. In order to see the inhabitants of the woods, one should avoid light or conspicuous clothing, dress as nearly as may be in harmony with the surroundings, and step about as gently as possible. You may go through a clump of woods talking with a companion and rarely see much that is happening; but go alone, gently, with eyes and ears open, and Nature begins to unfold some of her secrets. In the early morn the thrashers delight in perching on a tree-top and filling the surrounding glen with delightful melodies. In nesting-time they become very seclusive, and an occasional glimpse is all that we can get of this handsome bird as he flits from limb to limb, jerking and wagging his tail. Sometimes they build their nest on the ground, but more frequently on some bush or small tree. It is characteristic of the female when incubating to let you get very close before she will leave the nest. On one occasion while walking through an open woods I became conscious of a bright eye fixed upon me. The gleam of an orange iris accentuated its size, and in a second it dawned upon me that a thrasher sitting on its nest in a brush heap was the owner of the eye. I proceeded to arrange my tripod for a picture, but before I secured it she left the nest with a graceful flight. She flew around and around, making an angry noise, and continued her scolding for some time.

A friend of mine found a nest with eggs on the ground among some mandrakes. Selecting a dark night he visited the nest and, by keeping the bird bewildered under the rays of a pocket flash-light, was able to set up his camera at a distance of perhaps ten feet, arrange a reflector and touch off a flash powder, by the light of which he succeeded in getting a flash-light of the bird while incubating. She seemed to be unconcerned, and in fact did not leave the nest. The intruder decamped and left the serenity of her domestic life undisturbed.

The young of the thrasher are instantly recognized, for they have all the family characteristics of the parent birds so well defined. Frequently as late as the month of August, and long after most birds have turned their attention to other matters, the thrasher devotes its time to domestic duties. Indeed after the song season of many birds has passed, I have found in the Ohio Valley region the nests of thrashers and chewinks with eggs and young.

Measured by the birds and their customs, the springtime may extend, as we have seen, far into the calendar summer. We begin paying our devotions to the goddess while yet the snow is on the ground, and we are still doing homage at the shrine when the mercury hovers about the ninety-five-in-the-shade mark, but the change has come so gradually that from one day to another we have hardly noticed it. If to our worship we brought receptive hearts, stimulated by keen vision and hearing, we have learned much of practical economic value.

Without ever having opened the craw of one of the feathered tribe, observation with a good glass has taught us a multitude of things in regard to the feeding of the different species and their economic worth to the human race. From a commanding position by the nest of the yellow-billed cuckoo (Coccyzus americanus), we have learned that this bird is an invaluable ally in the war against the tent caterpillar. The grosbeak is the arch enemy of the potato bug; young bobwhites devour untold numbers of the eggs of the Hessian fly, that great ravager of the western grainfields; the woodpeckers save many an orchard and lawn tree from early death as a victim of one or another of the borers. Indeed, the tons of destruction, if we may apply the term, devoured by our birds in a single summer day, if it could be estimated, would make an appalling figure.

But beyond all the mass of facts gathered, which go to make up the sum total of the world’s knowledge, is that oxygenation of spirit, that freshness of vigor, bodily and mental, which we derive from having left behind the busy world for these hours of devotion at the shrine. I have always thought that there was a more spiritual quality in the religion of the Druids than in that of most ancient heathen faiths, due probably to the fact that their rites and ceremonies were performed in the woods and forests, and that in their seeking after a Force beyond that which they saw, they received some measure of the revelation which comes to every one who loves the woods and fields. To us who have the light of other revelation, the contact with Nature brings a closer touch and keener sympathy with the great scheme of the Author of all creation. And who can contemplate this without gaining dignity in the contemplation?

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