166 ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 



had seen it finishing its season a full month 

 earlier. I stopped, of course, to pluck a 

 blossom. At that moment a female redbird 

 flew out of the bush. Her mate was beside 

 her instantly, and a nameless something in 

 their manner told me they were trying to 

 keep a secret. The nest, built mainly of 

 pine needles and other leaves, was in the 

 middle of the bush, a foot or two from the 

 grass, and contained two bluish or greenish 

 eggs thickly spattered with dark brown. I 

 meant to look into it again (the owners 

 seemed to have no great objection), but 

 somehow missed it every time I passed. 

 From that point, as far as I went, the road 

 was lined with Cherokee roses, not con- 

 tinuously, but with short intermissions ; and 

 from the number of redbirds seen, almost 

 invariably in pairs, I feel safe in saying that 

 the nest I had found was probably one of 

 fifteen or twenty scattered along the way- 

 side. How gloriously the birds sang! It 

 was their day for singing. I was ready to 

 christen the road anew, Redbird Road. 



But the redbirds, many and conspicuous 

 as they were, had no monopoly of the road 

 or of the day. House wrens were equally 



