AN UNNAMED BIRD. 143 



settled down in the nest and sat there the picture 

 of quiet happiness. 



This was all I saw of the nest builders that 

 year. A great storm swept through the valley, 

 and it must have washed away the frail mossy 

 cup, for it was gone and the tree was deserted. 

 Nevertheless, the birds had been so attractive, 

 and their nest so interesting, that through the five 

 years that passed before my return to California 

 I kept their memory green, and could never think 

 of them without tenderness — though I could call 

 them by no name. If they had only worn red 

 feathers in their caps, it would have been some clue 

 to their coats-of-arms ; but, out of hand, there 

 seemed to be nothing to mark the plain, little, 

 greenish gray birds from half a dozen of their 

 cousins. 



When I finally returned to the California ranch, 

 one of my first thoughts was for the moss nest 

 makers up in the oaks. Now I had a chance to 

 solve the mystery without harming one of their 

 pretty feathers, for by long and patient watching I 

 might get near enough to puzzle out the i spurious 

 primary ' and the subtle distinctions of tint that 

 make such a difference in calling birds by their 

 right names. 



For six weeks I watched and listened in vain, 

 but one day when riding up the canyon rejoicing 

 at the new life that filled the trees, I stopped 

 under an oak only a few rods from the one where 



