NESTLINGS OF FOREST AND MARSH 
ent in every young blackbird, and the off- 
spring of “ El Capitan” were no exception. 
One of these bald-headed babies balancing 
himself gingerly on the edge of the swaying 
nest, was a funny sight on a calm day, but 
funnier still when the wind blew. How 
tightly his tiny claws grasped the stout 
grasses as he bobbed this way and that, in a 
desperate struggle to keep right side up! 
How enviously the four in the nest watched 
his gyrations! Occasionally a second and a 
third would climb out beside him, and then 
something was sure to happen. Too often 
it was a tumble for all three back into the 
cradle, but never a cry or a quarrelsome note 
that I could discern. 
All the little red-wings but two had flown 
before I reached the nest one morning — so 
early I fear no one will credit my note-book, 
which says 3:50 a. M., but morning comes 
quickly in the marshes where there are no 
trees to hide the sun. The nestlings were 
near by, hanging on to the rushes for dear 
life and begging for food with quivering 
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