At the upper end of the ravine whose banks we had 

 been exploring, I stooped down to scrape away the dry 

 leaves that covered a patch of Mitchella repens. A 

 small olive backed bird fluttered almost from beneath 

 my hand, and half running, half flying, but apparently 

 badly hurt, succeeded in making me attempt to pick her 

 up. When I had followed a few yards, she took wing 

 and glided gracefully away. I then knew what I 

 should have known at first, that the cunning bird was 

 tolling me away from her nest. I went back and 

 examined very carefully the place from which she had 

 first appeared, but could find nothing. Marking the 

 spot by tying together some twigs of a hemlock that 

 overhung the place, I went away long enough for her 

 to return. Approaching the place very cautiously, and 

 keeping my eyes on the patch of Mitchella, I was within 

 a step of the spot, when out again fluttered the bird 

 with the same cunning tactics, this time, however, 

 unsuccessful. I had no difliculty now in finding the 

 nest, which was not only well hidden by some moss on 

 a projecting root, but was dome-shaped and completely 

 covered, with only an opening at the side large enough 

 for the bird to enter and leave. It was the nest of the 

 oven bird or golden-crowned thrush {Sciurus aitrocapil- 

 lus\ and contained ^lyq very pretty eggs, with ground- 

 work almost white and spotted with brown. The nest 

 and eggs closely resemble those of the Hudsonian spar- 

 row. The mate for some time had been singing near 

 by, and his loud military song, " I see, I see, I see," had 

 evidently been intended to prevent me from seeing 



