BIRDS. 



Illustrated by COLOR PHOTOGRfVPHY. 



Vol. I. 



MAY, 1897. 



No. 



NESTING TIME. 



" There swims no goose so gray, but sooa or late, 

 She takes some honest gander for a mate ;" 

 There live no birds, however bright or plain, 

 Bui rear a brood to take their place again, 



— C. C. ISI. 



UITE the jolliest season of 

 the year, with the birds, 

 is when they begin to 

 require a home, either 

 as a shelter from the weather, a defence 

 against their enemies, or a place to 

 rear and protect their young. May is 

 not the only month in which they 

 build their nests, some of our favorites, 

 indeed, waiting till June, and even 

 July; but as it is the time of the year 

 when a general awakening to life and 

 activity is felt in all nature, and the 

 early migrants have come back, not to 

 re-visit, but to re-establish their tempo- 

 rarily deserted homes, we naturally fix 

 upon the first real spring month as the 

 one in which their little hearts are 

 filled with titillations of joy and 

 anticipation. 



In May, when the trees have put on 

 their fullest dress of green, and the 

 little nests are hidden from all curious 

 eyes, if we could look quite through 

 the waving branches and rustling 

 leaves, we should behold the little 

 mothers sitting upon their tiny eggs 

 in patient happiness, or feeding their 

 young broods, not yet able to flutter 

 away ; while in the leafy month of 

 June, when Nature is perfect in mature 



beauty, the young may everywhere be 

 seen gracefully imitating the parent 

 birds, whose sole purpose in life seems 

 to be the fulfillment of the admonition 

 to care well for one's own. 



There can hardly be a higher 

 pleasure than to watch the nest build- 

 ing of birds. See the Wren looking 

 for a convenient cavity in ivy-covered 

 walls, under eaves, or among the 

 thickly growing branches of fir 

 trees, the tiny creature singing with 

 cheerful voice all day long. Observe 

 the Woodpecker tunneling his nest in 

 the limb of a lofty tree, his pickax-like 

 beak finding no difficulty in making 

 its way through the decayed wood, the 

 sound of his pounding, however, 

 accompanied by his shrill whistle, 

 echoing through the grove. 



But the nest of the Jay: Who can 

 find it? Although a constant prowler 

 about the nests of other birds, he is so 

 wary and secretive that his little home 

 is usually found only by accident. And 

 the Swallow: "He is the bird of 

 return," Michelet prettily says of him. 

 If you will only treat him kindly, says 

 Ruskin, year after year, he comes back 

 to the same niche, and to the same 

 hearth, for his nest. To the same 



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