NEST-HUNTING. 99 
What a contrast is the open-air hammock of the 
Baltimore oriole, swinging from the flexible branches 
of a buttonwood tree a little farther up the stream ! 
How softly the chirping brood within is rocked by 
the breezes that sweep down from the slopes, laden 
with the odor of clover blossoms! Somewhere near 
there must be a warbling vireo’s nest, for one of 
these birds is singing in the trees; but my eyes are 
not sharp enough to descry its pensile domicile. 
On my way home, on the top of a hill, I step 
casually up to a small thorn-bush, whose branches 
and leaves are thickly matted together, and, as I 
push the foliage aside, there is a flutter of wings, 
followed by a rapid chirping, and a little bird flits 
away, pretending to be seriously wounded. It is a 
bush-sparrow. Cosily placed beneath the leafy roof 
among the thick boughs is the procreant cradle. 
What could be more dainty! A little nest, woven 
of fine grass-fibres, deftly lined with hair, and con- 
taining four speckled eggs, real gems. How “beau- 
tiful for situation” is this tiny cottage on the hill! 
Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy 
verandas, look down into the green valleys, and 
compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. 
One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the 
happy couple. 
On returning, one day, from an ornithological 
jaunt, IT met my friend, the young farmer, who 
knows something about my furor for the birds. 
There was a knowing smile on his sunburned face. 
<““T know where there’s a killdeer’s nest,’ he said ; 
