Song Birds and Water Fowl 
a female that was arranging the frail foundation, 
about twelve feet from the ground, in a horn- 
beam tree. As soon as her sharp eyes discov- 
ered that she was being watched, she darted off; 
and, from the torrent of sharp notes I heard im- 
mediately afterward, I felt that she was cursing 
me to her mate, to the best of her ability, which 
is by no means inconsiderable in such cases ; so, 
with the uncomfortable feeling that I was very 
much in the way, I withdrew. A few days later 
I found that she had recovered her temper, and 
completed the structure, a very neat and com- 
pact apartment of delicate material, whose 
existence was likely to remain a secret be- 
tween us three. 
An ornithologist must often inscribe an in- 
terrogation mark upon his memory, sometimes 
waiting a long time before he can erase it. In 
this ramble I erased one of mine; for I heard 
a song which I recognized as the same that I 
heard two years before, when I vainly tried to 
find its source. But on this occasion I found 
it—like the poet who very irrationally shot an 
arrow into the air—‘‘in the heart of a friend,’’ 
and, in fact, in his mouth; for it was the 
chewink chanting a little melody that I did not 
know was in his répertoire. While uncertainty 
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