252 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



nest — just what, I could not at first tell, for 

 mortar dust had fallen into my eyes, and it was 

 difficult to keep the glass still enough to see with 

 my eyes blinking and weeping. The mother-bird 

 had been driven from the nest by the appearance 

 of the strange, misshapen thing which I had 

 forced toward her from below, and she was now 

 making short flights back and forth in the upper 

 part of the chimney, producing sounds and sud- 

 den variations in light and darkness which would 

 surely have frightened away any but a himian 

 intruder. Wiping my eyes and steadying the 

 glass, I took a careful look at the contents of 

 the nest. The white object, or at all events its 

 whitest part, was an eggshell from whose opened 

 halves a young bird was feebly trying to escape. 

 Without waiting to see more, I withdrew the 

 mirror from the chimney and removed all dis- 

 turbing objects, myself included, from the fire- 

 place. My heart reproached me. Had my 

 -sdolence driven the birds from their nest, thus 

 making probable the death of the young at this 

 trying crisis in their career ? More than fifteen 

 minutes passed before booming wings in the 

 swift's gruesome nursery assured me that a par- 

 ent had returned. 



These events happened on Monday, and not 

 until the following Saturday did I again intrude 

 upon my batlike neighbors. Meanwhile I was 



