NESTLINGS, OF FOREST AND MARSH 
are hatched, and you have conceived a real 
love for the helpless little things, and then 
come back after an hour’s absence to find 
that a crow has stopped there for breakfast, 
and not one is left. And yet, why blame 
the crows for what we, with our full knowl- 
edge of good and evil, do for mere personal 
adornment or gratification of palate? 
The story I am going to tell of a farmer’s 
hate and a father bird’s love is true in every 
respect, and is, alas! only one of many such 
instances. 
Early in April a pair of crows selected 
the top of a sturdy oak in the wood about 
our temporary home for their nest, and _be- 
gan to build. Day after day they carried 
twigs from the brush pile, dead leaves from 
the wood, and bunches of cow-hair from the 
pasture, to the crotch, and placed each bit 
with nicest care. Let no one slur a crow’s 
nest, for every twig has its own place, and 
you cannot remove one without disturbing 
the entire structure. This particular nest, 
according to the description of the Man 
78 
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