rain-storm washed the blooniin' sj)arrow out." We also know that when the rain 

 stopped the sparrow went up the spout again and there fixed its habitation, await- 

 ing another flood. I can readily beheve this story of a sparrow. The robins who 

 lost their home in the north-shore thunder-storm started to rebuild their nest on 

 the same rain-pipe elbow before the pools in the street were thoroughly dry. 

 Doubtless they felt that the shadow of the church made their home sacred from 

 the attack of man, and they were willing for the safety thus secured to run the 

 risk of more showers. Their second home was washed down within a week. 

 They went elsewhere, and let it be hoped were spared from the dangers of both 

 field and flood. 



Chipping sparrows, robins, catbirds, bluejays, and many of the other bird 

 species which seek man's society do not resent a certain amount of prying into 

 their household affairs. None of the birds named will think of deserting its home 

 simply because you take a daily peep at the eggs or occasionally undertake to 

 help the parent birds out in the matter of feeding the young. Confidence when 

 once established is lasting. There are some birds, however, which occasionally 

 build under the shadow of our walls who resent human curiosity and will desert 

 their nests at the first appearance of supposed danger. The rose-breasted gros- 

 beak frequently builds in the garden or in the trees that shadow the sidewalks. 

 The rose-breast is a beauty. His life in the spring is one continuous song. As 

 someone has put it, he wears a blush rose in his button-hole, and is the Beau 

 Brummel of the birds. The rose-breasts build a flimsy nest. It has but little 

 more stability than the nest of the mourning dove. They are as jealous, however, 

 of the approach to the little home as though it had taken a lifetime in its rearing. 

 When a pair of the birds build near the house they must not be allowed to know 

 that the nesting site has been discovered. If they see a person looking at their 

 home they will often desert instanter. A pair of robins built a nest in a tree 

 directly in front of the residence of a bird-loving friend. One day he saw some 

 school-boys trying to climb the tree to get at the robins' nest. He drove the boys 

 away. A few days afterward he discovered that a rose-breasted grosbeak was 

 building its nest in the tree not far above the home of the robin. Then the fear 

 came that the boys would come back and ravage both nests. So the birds' friend 

 took a hammer and drove a lot of wire nails into the trunk of the tree, thus pre- 

 cluding the possibility of climbing it. "I may lose the tree," said the nail-driver, 

 "but I hope to save the birds." He was hitting the last blow with the hammer 

 when the grosbeak came with a straw in its mouth. It saw the man standing 

 below, dropped its building material, and fled. It never came back. It is some- 

 thing more than a pity that the birds cannot at first sight tell friend from foe. 

 The robin sat on the nest all through the nail-driving without as much as fluttering 

 a feather. 



In the spring of 1899 I found the nest of a vesper sparrow in a Highland 

 Park field. The bird clung to its charge until I almost stepped on it. Then it 

 left the nest and gave an acrobatic performance which, had its motive not been 



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