Berkeley in May, 



the heart of the tree, leaving a small 

 cavity, a plain crested titmouse, dressed 

 in her lead-colored attire, is tending her 

 numerous brood of young. Away off 

 among the bay trees that nestle in the 

 upper part of the canon a clamorous 

 California jay is squawking in a harsh 

 but altogether good-natured sort of a 

 way. Even he — noisy vagabond that 

 he is — knows the joy and sorrow of 

 having a home and family on his hands, 

 though I fancy the cares do not weigh 

 very heavily upon him in the daily rou- 

 tine of his plundering, rollicking life. 

 SamueFs song-sparrow, too, has found a 

 place for her nest in the canon, in a 

 wild tangle of blackberry vines at one 

 side of the road; but the crowning 

 glorv of nest architecture is concealed 

 in the all-including limbs of the live- 

 oak. It is the home of the California 

 bush-tit, the tiniest of all birds except 

 the hummers. A plain, mouse-colored 

 little fellow is the bush-tit, with a blithe, 

 high-pitched lisp of a note, his v/ee 

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