XXI 
SOUTHWARD BOUND 
Wuite walking through a piece of pine wood, 
three or four days ago, I was delighted to put 
my eye unexpectedly upon a hummingbird’s nest. 
The fairy structure was placed squarely upon the 
upper surface of a naked, horizontal branch, and 
looked so fresh, trimmed outwardly with bits of 
ervay lichen, that I felt sure it must have been 
built this year. But where now were the birds 
that built it, and the nestlings that were hatched 
in it? Who could tell? In imagination I saw the 
mother sitting upon the tiny, snow-white eggs, 
and then upon the two little ones — little ones, 
indeed, no bigger than bumble-bees at first. I 
saw her feeding them day by day, as they grew 
larger and larger, till at last the cradle was get- 
ting too narrow for them, and they were ready to 
make a trial of their wings. But where were they 
now? Not here, certainly. For a fortnight I had 
been passing down this path almost daily, and 
not once had I seen a hummingbird. 
