158 THE TANAGER'S NEST. 



Ill this lovely spot come together four roads 

 and a path, and to the pilgrim from cities they 

 seem like paths into paradise. That on the right 

 leads by a roundabout way to the "corner," 

 where one may see the sunset. The next, straight 

 in front, is the passage to the nest of the winter 

 wren. The far left invites one to a wild tangle 

 of fallen trees and undergrowth, where veeries 

 sing, and enchanting but maddening warblers 

 lure the bird-lover on, to scramble over logs, 

 wade into swamps, push through chaotic masses 

 of branches, and, while using both hands to make 

 her way, incidentally offer herself a victim to 

 the thirsty inhabitants whose stronghold it is. 

 All this in a vain search for some atom of a bird 

 that doubtless sits through the whole, calmly 

 perched on the topmost twig of the tallest tree, 

 shielded by a leaf, and pours out the tantalizing 

 trill that draws one like a magnet. 



Between this road and the wren's highway a 

 path runs upward. It is narrow, and guarded 

 at the opening by a mossy log to be stepped 

 over, but it is most alluring. Up that route we 

 go. On the left as we pass we notice two beau- 

 tiful nests in saplings, so low that we can look 

 in; redstarts both, and nearly always we find 

 madam at home. We pass on, step over a sec- 

 ond mossy log, pause a moment to glance at a 

 vireo's hanging cradle on the right, and arrive 



