A BIRD'S-NEST HUNTER. 97 



been sorry indeed to believe that it could 

 end in strife. Nor could I regard it as so 

 unpardonable a weakness for a bird to move 

 off, even from her young, when a man put 

 his fingers within a few inches of her. Pos- 

 sibly she ought to have known that I meant 

 no mischief. Possibly, too, her doughty 

 lord would have behaved more commend- 

 ably in the same circumstances ; but of that 

 I am by no means certain. To borrow a 

 theological term, my conception of bird 

 nature is decidedly anthropomorphic, and I 

 incline to believe that chickadees as well as 

 men find it easier to blame others than to 

 do better themselves. 



Here these reminiscences must come to an 

 end, though the greater part of my season's 

 experiences are still untouched. First, how- 

 ever, let me relieve my conscience by put- 

 ting on record the bravery of a black-billed 

 cuckoo, whom I was obliged fairly to drive 

 from her post of duty. Her nest was a 

 sorry enough spectacle, a flat, unwalled 

 platform, carpeted with willow catkins and 

 littered with egg-shells, in the midst of 

 which latter lay a single callow nestling, 

 nearly as black as a crow. But as I looked 



