THE HUMMINGBIRD 53 
Last May, for example, I stopped in the mid- 
dle of the road to listen for the voice of a house 
wren, when I caught instead the buzz and squeak 
of ahummer. Turning my gaze upward, I saw 
her fly to a half-built nest on a maple branch 
directly over my head. 
The nest is a tiny thing, looking for size and 
shape like a cup out of a child’s toy tea-set. Its 
walls are thick, and on the outside are covered 
—shingled, we may say —with bits of gray 
lichen, which help to make the nest look like 
nothing more than a knot. Whether they are 
put on for that purpose, or by way of ornament, 
is more than I can tell. | 
The bird always lays two white eggs, about 
as large as peas. The young ones stay in the 
nest for three weeks, more or less, till they are 
fully grown and fledged, and perfectly well able 
to fly. I once saw one take his first flight, and 
a great venture it seemed. All these three 
weeks, and for another week afterward, the 
mother — no father is present — has her hands 
full to supply the little things with food, which 
she gives them from her crop, thrusting her 
long, sharp bill clean down their throats in the 
process, in a way to make a looker-on shiver. 
The only note I have ever heard from the ruby- 
throat is a squeak, which seems to be an expres- 
