82 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



red wattled neck of my buzzard guide. The buzzard 

 saw me, too, and began to twist its head and to 

 twitch its wing-tips nervously. Then the long, black 

 wings began to open, as you would open a two-foot 

 rule, and, with a heavy lurch that left the dead stub 

 rocking, the bird dropped and was soon soaring 

 high up in the blue. 



This was the locality of the nest; now where 

 should I find it? Evidently I was to have no further 

 help from the old bird. The underbrush was so thick 

 that I could hardly see farther than my nose. A 

 half -rotten tree-trunk lay near, the top end resting 

 across the backs of several saplings that it had borne 

 down in its fall. I crept up on this for a look around, 

 and almost tumbled off at finding myself staring 

 directly into the dark, cavernous hollow of an im- 

 mense log lying on a slight rise of ground a few 

 feet ahead of me. 



It was a yawning hole, which at a glance I knew 

 belonged to the buzzard. The log, a mere shell of a 

 mighty white oak, had been girdled and felled with 

 an axe, by coon-hunters probably, and still lay with 

 one side resting upon the rim of the stump. As I 

 stood looking, something white stirred vaguely in 

 the hole and disappeared. 



Leaping from my perch, I scrambled forward to 

 the mouth of the hollow log and was greeted with 

 hisses from far back in the dark. Then came a thump- 

 ing of bare feet, more hisses, and a sound of snap* 

 ping beaks. I had found my buzzard's nest! 



