NEST-HUNTING. Ios 
flakes which are piled up in them in downy mounds, 
and thus attract the attention of the observer. I 
have often felt inclined to heap upon myself the 
most caustic epithets for having passed again and 
again, during the breeding-season, so near the nest 
of an interesting bird without knowing of its exist- 
ence until winter’s frosts had stripped the coppice 
of its leaves, and have resolved as often that the 
next season shall not find me napping. 
In the marsh which is one of my favorite trudging- 
grounds, I made a quaint discovery some winters 
ago, which has raised more than one query in my 
mind. One day, after a snowfall, I found many 
deserted nests in the thickets. Brushing the snow 
out of them revealed, in the bottom of each basket, 
a small pile of the seeds and broken shells of wild- 
rose and thorn berries. Why had the birds put 
them there —if it was the birds? Perhaps the 
winter birds, when they arrived in the autumn, 
found these old nests good storehouses in which to 
lay by their winter supplies. I have never seen the 
birds feeding on them, but, as spring approached, 
the berry seeds had nearly all disappeared. 
Come with me, for I know a pleasant, half-clois- 
tered field of clover which is the habitat of a number 
of charming little birds. Just where it is shall 
remain one of my semi-sylvan secrets, for one must 
not betray all the confidences of one’s feathered 
intimates. The field cutsa right angle in a wood- 
land, by which it is, therefore, bounded on the east 
and north, while toward the west and south the 
