NESTLINGS OF FOREST AND MARSH 
Cream-buff downy feathers covered the 
breast and sides, merging into pure white on 
the belly. The head, wings, and tiny stub 
of a tail were cinnamon-brown. Bills and 
legs were still verging on the burnt-orange 
color, but shading to darker rather than 
light. 
I said “tails,” but really they had only 
“promises” or none at all, and the rump 
was alarmingly bald through the thin down. 
The little oil sack could plainly be seen, and 
was much more conspicuous than in the case 
of birds who nest away from the water. Yet 
I have never known the marsh wrens to 
bathe with unusual frequency, or to like the 
water any better than their land cousins. 
As in the case of most young birds, we 
had to teach them to perch; and a comical 
task it was. The tiny claws had never 
learned to clasp, and yet by instinct they 
fastened to the rushes, and the little ball of 
down tried to balance itself on its uncertain 
little legs. I stood always with a hand 
ready to catch one in case of an unlucky 
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