92 IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



lating and scolding with all his might, as much 

 as to say, " Please don't stop here ! Go straight 

 along, T beg of you ! Our nest is right under 

 this bank ! " And one glance under the bank 

 showed that I had not misinterpreted his dem- 

 onstrations. For all that, I do not feel like 

 taking a lofty tone in passing judgment upon 

 Junco. He is not the only one whose wisdom 

 is mixed with foolishness. There is at least one 

 other person of whom the same is true, — a 

 person of whom I have nevertheless a very good 

 opinion, and with whom I am, or ought to be, 

 better acquainted than I am with any animal 

 that wears feathers. 



The prettiest snow-bird's nest I ever saw was 

 built beside the Crawford bridlepath, on Mount 

 Clinton, just before the path comes out of the 

 woods at the top. It was lined with hair-moss 

 (a species of P olytrichum) of a bright orange 

 color, and with its four or five white, lilac-spot- 

 ted eggs made so attractive a picture that I was 

 constrained to pause a moment to look at it, 

 even though I had three miles of a steep, rough 

 footpath to descend, with a shower threatening 



home." On one occasion she allowed my hand to come within two 

 or three inches of her bill. In every case she flew off without any 

 outcry or ruse, and once at least she fell immediately to fly-catch- 

 ing with admirable philosophy. So far as I know, this is the only 

 nest of the species ever found in New England outside of Maine. 

 But it is proper to add that I did not capture the bird. 



