AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 131 



thicket below, or a chipmonk scampering over the dry leaves, could be 

 heard with the greatest clearness, and, as I heard them I realized their 

 ■disadvantage when stalked by an enemy from on high. 



The breeze swayed the lofty tree top gently and imparted to it a 

 dreamy restful motion; and I surmise that the joy of bursting spring 

 set me to thinking. Here beside me was the home of a bandit, a high- 

 wayman whose very appearance lent terror, and yet it was quiet and 

 happy. Whatever the owners' lives were abroad, they were gentle and 

 loving at home. However merciless the Hawks were when hunting, 

 they had a home, w^hich, for quietness and repose, all of us might envy. 

 The sun and wind played upon it as softly as they ever would on the 

 Yellowthroat's nest in the thicket below, and yet in one they caressed 

 a family of marauders; in the other a type of gentleness. And so it 

 seems that ones home, like his life is what he makes it. The same love 

 that lived in the Yellowthroat's breast and nursed her wee eggs into 

 life, soothed the firy spirits and cruel natures of these unquiet war- 

 riors and made their home an ideal of devotion and happiness. 



Before descending the tree, I dropped a weighted line to the ground 

 to ascertain how high it was. It was just sixty-five feet to where the 

 eggs rested and of course the camera was considerable above that. I 

 intended to return to the nest after the eggs were hatched and get a 

 picture of the young birds, but business that interrupter of our pleasures, 

 hindered me and I was obliged to leave home before I again had an 

 opportunity of climbing the tree. 



But I trust that the nest still rests there in that massive hemlock, as 

 it did that morning when I left, just as the crows were nesting and the 

 leaf buds bursting into the soft air of spring time. 



Walter E. Burnham. 



BIRD FOUNTAINS IN THE SCHOOL YARDS. 



fjy V. F. Hodge, Clark University. 



For several years past the most interesting thing about my place 

 during the summer months has been the bird fountain in the garden. I 

 have snap shots showing as many as eight robins bathing, drinking, or 

 waiting their turns. The way they make the water fly is delightful to 

 see and their evident enjoyment is infectious. 



A good deal of attention is being devoted to feeding the birds in win- 

 ter and, valuable as this is, I do not think it compares in either import- 

 ance or in the delight to both giver and recipient that attends a cup of 

 cold water in the name of a disciple. We often see the birds panting 

 about the arid streets with their bills open, or drinking and bathing in 

 the filthy pools of the gutters ; and it is little wonder that they leave 



