92 IN THE WHIM) MOUNTAINS. 
lating and scolding with all his might, as much 
as to say, “ Please don’t stop here! Go straight 
along, I beg of you! Our nest is right under 
this bank!” And one glance under the bank 
showed that I had not misinterpreted his dem- 
onstrations. For all that, I do not feel like 
taking a lofty tone in passing judgment upon 
Junco. He is not the only one whose wisdom 
is mixed with foolishness. There is at least one 
other person of whom the same is true, —a 
person of whom I have nevertheless a very good 
opinion, and with whom I am, or ought to be, 
better acquainted than I am with any animal 
that wears feathers. 
The prettiest snow-bird’s nest I ever saw was 
built beside the Crawford bridle path, on Mount 
Clinton, just before the path comes out of the 
woods at the top. It was lined with hair-moss 
(a species of Polytrichum) of a bright orange 
color, and with its four or five white, llac-spot- 
ted eggs made so attractive a picture that I was 
constrained to pause a moment to look at it, 
even though I had three miles of a steep, rough 
footpath to descend, with a shower threatening 
home.’’ On one occasion she allowed my hand to come within two 
or three inches of her bill. In every case she flew off without any 
outcry or ruse, and once at least she fell immediately to fly-catch- 
ing with admirable philosophy. So far as I know, this is the only 
nest of the species ever found in New England outside of Maine. 
But it is proper to add that I did not capture the bird. 
