70 WHEN NESTING IS OVER. 



was driven away. Every day, and many times 

 a day, arose the doleful cry of distress. I al- 

 ways looked over from my seat on the other side 

 of the little open spot in the wood, and invari- 

 ably saw a robin on the lower part of the wild- 

 cherry where the trunk divided, flirting his tail, 

 jerking his wings, and looking very wicked 

 indeed. Down upon him came one, sometimes 

 two pewees. He simply ran up the sloping 

 branch toward their nest, hopped to another 

 limb, every step bringing him nearer, the pe- 

 wees darting frantically at him — and at last 

 took flight from the other side ; but not until he 

 was quite ready. This drama was enacted with 

 clock-like regidarity, neither party seeming to 

 tire of its repetition, till the happy day when 

 the pewee baby could fly, and appeared across 

 the grove, near me. 



One morning I noticed the anxious parents 

 very busy on a small oak-tree, but a clump of 

 leaves made a perfect hiding place for the in- 

 fant, and I could not see it at first. There may 

 have been more, although I saw but one and 

 heard but one baby cry, a prolonged but very 

 low sound of pewee quality. While their charge 

 lingered so near me, I was treated to another 

 sensation by one of the pair, — a pewee song. 

 The performer alighted almost directly over my 

 head, and began at once to sing in a very sweet 



