234 Bird- Lore 



beneath a triple birch tree where the ground was thick with Christmas ferns 

 there was the oven-shaped nest still holding an unhatched Cowbird's egg. In- 

 stantly the question asked itself — one of those irritating, unanswerable 

 questions — "Did the Oven-bird hatch and rear a brood within a span of a gar- 

 den footpath? Or did the alien egg alarm their desire for privacy to such an 

 extent that the builders left silently for more remote haunts? If the last was 

 the case, our lack of sight, insight or intuition, whichever it may be called, was 

 less inexcusable. 



The gathering of many sweet peas is a daily occupation, involving both time 

 and patience, both of which the Commuter gives to them; and yet when the 

 dead vines were torn from the brush and both removed to the burning heap, 

 three well-worn nests revealed themselves exactly at the level where they 

 should have been the most discernible — two belonging, probably, to Song 

 Sparrows, and one the hair-lined home of the Chipping Sparrow, while 

 the number of Robin's nests revealed each autumn is a constant proof of the 

 wonderful protection that nature gives to one of the most vociferious of her 

 feathered children. 



From the last of the month, until winter fairly sets in, we watch for the Hermit 

 Thrush. For him the garden has ample lure of dogwood and magnolia berries, 

 his chosen autumn food. So, with food and plenty of spruce shelter, we have a 

 good month each year in which to become friends, and though the acquaint- 

 ance must be rebuilt each season, it is well worth the trouble, and it is quite 

 easy to know this beautifully groomed Thrush at a si.x-foot range. 



The Chickadees, though resident, come into open view again in proportion 

 as the leaves disappear, also the White-breasted Nuthatches and the Downy 

 Woodpeckers. 



Once we had Quail, as a regular thing, on the place, and even now an odd 

 brace of Ruffed Grouse have come to feed, and a year ago established a 

 dusting place across the fence; but it was left to the first day of the last open 

 season to present a picture that belonged to the golden age of New England 

 game. 



About eight o'clock of a gray morning following the first white frost, a tap 

 came at the front window, and a finger beckoned me out, at the same time 

 warning caution. Tiptoeing about the house, I stood literally transfixed, for 

 there, crossing the lawn, walking toward some brush, in a close brood, like little 

 Turkeys, was a great flock of Quails. Though they kept on the move, their 

 motions were so deliberate that, as they spread and then lined up on entering 

 a gap between some trees, we could count them — forty-two in all! 



From where did they come? Was it a gathering of coveys that report 

 said were reared in a few protected spots? Were they migrants en route? For, 

 of a certain, the Quail migrates far beyond the commonly recognized limits. 



Be as it may, we spread buckwheat and cracked corn in many places, and all 

 that day the birds remained on the grounds. Next morning found them in the 



