at) THE BIRD OF SOCIETY. 



makes himself so conspicuous, and his business 

 so apparent, that the dullest observer cannot fail 

 to notice him. Long before you reach his vi- 

 cinity you shall hear his gleeful " Conk-a-ree " 

 (or more correctly " h'wa-ker-ee," as Gentry has 

 it), and, as you approach, his loud " Chack ! 

 chack ! " challenging your right to intrude, and 

 demanding your business in his retreat. 



But draw near, even if, as sometimes hap- 

 pens, the bird grows belligerent and swoops 

 down toward your face. You will find a clump 

 of trees at the edge of the water, generally 

 hedged in by low, thick-growing shrubs. Part 

 the branches, in defiance of his angry protests, 

 stoop, and you shall step into a most charming 

 spot, his chosen home. If in a park it will be 

 a bit of wildness, left as nature planned it, un- 

 frequented and perfectly secluded, though per- 

 haps not ten feet from a common walk. 



Within the thick shrouding bushes the ground 

 is bare or thinly clad with low shrubs, and tall 

 trees completely shade the leafy temple, which 

 is cool and roomy and refreshing in its peculiar 

 green light. One side borders the water, and 

 there, low among the reeds, is doubtless the 

 homestead so highly regarded, and so poorly 

 concealed. But though the spot be lonely, you 

 shall not enjoy it in peace, for this anxious par- 

 ent, the most fussy and restless of feathered 



