always count upon the jay's doing something new. This doorstep jay did 

 something decidedly new — he dropped from his beak to the ground at my 

 feet a round, flat, smooth stone of the diameter of an inch. It was one of 

 the kind of which thousands may be found along the lake shore. I should 

 judge, from a long and somewhat intimate acquaintance with jays, that they 

 have not the regular habit of making stone-boats of their beaks. I picked 

 the stone up, and asked the bird what he had intended to do. with it. He 

 cocked his head on one side, looked down on me, and screamed "Thief" at 

 the top of his lungs. I agree with Bradford Torrey that this bird says 

 "thief" much more plainly than he says "jay." Thus he characterizes him- 

 self as well as if he spoke English more fluently. The jay is essentially a 

 thief, and seems to take delight in proclaiming the fact to the world. 



On the outskirts of Highland Park, 111., there is a patch of dense under- 

 growth. Before the heavier timber was cut down, the place was known as 

 Hamilton's Woods. Some years ago these acres of underbrush were divided 

 into town lots, and a new city was to spring up. One house and an ambitious 

 cement sidewalk with plank extensions are all that remain as monuments 

 to the purpose and hope of the projectors. This town-site is on the very 

 summit of the ridge which slopes down westward to the Skokie. Far off 

 beyond the stretches of coarse swamp-grass one sees, blue in the distance, 

 the woods that skirt the river. From this spot it is that sunsets may be seen 

 having in them something of the higher glories of color that are associated 

 with the close of day in the hill countries far removed from the level plains 

 of Illinois. The undergrowth is not uninhabited. There, summer and win- 

 ter, live the rabbits, a squirrel or two, the red-headed and downy wood- 

 peckers, the jay and the chickadee, and the not infrequent quail. In summer 

 this spot is the haunt of the scarlet tanager, the catbird, the brown thrasher, 

 and the oriole. 



When I reached Hamilton's Woods on that winter's day, I stopped to 

 examine some bits of bird architecture ; for though man failed to build here, 

 there are enough bird homes in the patch to give evidence of its excellence 

 as a dwelling place. In a hazel-bush, not more than twenty feet from the 

 highroad, I found the deserted nest of a catbird. The July previous I had 

 watched the outgoing of the fledgeling family from this little home. I had 

 reached a point within five feet of the nest when I was struck by the fact 

 that it was moving. There was a rustling of the dry oak leaves which 

 formed its base, and the twigs above were swaying in a way which pre- 

 cluded the possibility of the movement being the work of the wind. Then 

 through my mind flashed the thought of Dr. Abbott's tales of winter cat- 

 birds in New Jersey, and of the story I had heard of one of the birds which 

 for a whole winter did not go nearer the equator than South Chicago. Was 

 it possible that one of these gray, scolding, querulous creatures was revisit- 

 ing its summer home, and marking the exception which proved the Spanish 



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