86 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 
And when not hunting, how silent and motion- 
less they sit, the phoebe on the ridgepole of a 
barn, the wood pewee on a twig in the flickering 
sunlight and shade of the green woods ; neither 
of them uttering more than an occasional note, 
and scarcely stirring unless to look over their 
shoulders. 
Though the phcebe and wood pewee look so 
much alike, in reality they are as much at odds 
as a farmer and a poet. Unlike the nest of the 
phoebe, the wood pewee’s is essentially woodsy 
and distinctive. It is an exquisite little structure, 
saddled on to a lichen-covered limb. Made of fine 
roots and delicate stems of grass and seed pods, 
it is covered with bits of lichen or moss glued on 
with saliva, so that like the humming-bird’s nest it 
seems to bea knob on the branch. It is a shallow 
little nest, and the four richly crowned creamy 
egos, though tiny enough in themselves, leave 
little room for the body of the brooding mother. 
In temper the phebe is so prosaic that we nat- 
urally connect it with the beams of barns and 
cow sheds ; while the wood pewee, associated with 
the cool depths of the forest, is fitted to mspire 
poets, and to stir the deepest chords of human 
nature with its plaintive, far-reaching voice. 
It has moods for all of ours. Its faint, lisping 
io 
pe-ee 
ii a i i 
