In the Nesting-Season 197 



with an arch of grasses completely hiding the eggs. In the fork of a young 

 white pine on the edge of the field, I found a Chipping Sparrow's cradle; it 

 was made of dry grass and rootlets and lined with horse-hair. Five small 

 pastel-blue eggs with purplish brown markings at the larger end, foretold moie 

 Chippies. But I hurried away, lest even my presence should cause the parent 

 birds to desert the nest. Some Chipping Sparrows are over-sensitive. 



Not far from the little white pine grew a tiny hardhack bush, and from 

 beneath it, as I approached, flew a small brown bird whose white outer tail- 

 feathers proclaimed it a Vesper Sparrow. The nest of dry grass, loose yet 

 firm, and lined with soft horse-hair, rested in a slight hollow scooped in the 

 earth. Five white eggs, speckled with brown, lay in it. 



And so I spent the happy hours, wandering from upland field to wooded 

 valley, and from valley to the river meadows. Everywhere life was at the 

 high tide. And the magic of it all came when the sun sank behind the violet 

 mountain; then in the dusky aisles of pine in the cathedral woods rose the holy 

 evening hymn of the Hermit Thrushes and from the timbered terraces far 

 below by the river rang the rich, mysterious song-cycle of the Veery — wheel, 

 wheel-wheel, ah wheel! — running, crystal water, bush ferns, moss, mystery and 

 wonder, shot with pain, compressed in the song of one dun bird. 



But verily "in the midst of life we are in death," for Nature is ruthless, and 

 the smiling landscape hides many a bitter tragedy. The struggle for survival 

 brands everything living, and from the frail birds is wrested every year a 

 heavy toll. Only yesterday, in a mood of high ecstasy, I found two Hermit 

 Thrushes' nests. The first nest was in the pasture, cunningly contrived on the 

 ground at the base of a small white pine seedling; it was fitted to the earth 

 and built of pine needles with an edging of soft green moss at the brim; it 

 contained four eggs. The nesting bird slipped away noiselessly over the ground 

 and then flew up as I approached, but this high priestess of the woods had 

 revealed her true shrine and very reverently I knelt before it. The second 

 nest was on the edge of a hemlock fringe of woods, and I saw the downless new 

 birds in its piney cup. Today the nest was empty, and the helpless blind babies 

 gone. From a pit I passed this afternoon some ugly skunks leered out at me. 

 Were the heavenly voiced babies squab for skunks? 



The walk had revealed one more tragedy. Two days ago, below the stable, 

 in an unprotected spot, I had found — a Veery 's nest! From the center of a 

 low meadowsweet bush two great eyes watched me unflinchingly and let me 

 approach by cautious degrees till I bent over the bush. Then out quietly flew 

 a female Veery — quietly, unexcitedly she flew to a nearby basswood and shook 

 her feathers, leaving me to examine her nursery — the nursery of the most 

 magic-voiced of all our birds whose strange singing weaves a spell as deep as 

 any ever cast by witches' incantation. Plaited of roots and grasses, with one 

 crow's feather for luck, was the sprite's nest, and within it three clumsy, naked 

 birds. Today but one blind thing remained. Now, when with the sunset rose 



