68 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



trous years, like the one under review, would cause 

 it to lengthen it again beyond the reach of owl's 

 talons or jay-bird's beak. 



The first song sparrow's nest I observed in the 

 spring of 1881 was in a field under a fragment of 

 a board, the board being raised from the ground a 

 couple of inches by two poles. It had its full com- 

 plement of eggs, and probably sent forth a brood of 

 young birds, though as to this I cannot speak posi- 

 tively, as I neglected to observe it further. It was 

 well sheltered and concealed, and was not easily 

 come at by any of its natural enemies, save snakes 

 and weasels. But concealment often avails little. 

 In May, a song sparrow, which had evidently met 

 with disaster earlier in the season, built its nest in 

 a thick mass of woodbine against the side of my 

 house, about fifteen feet from the ground. Perhaps 

 it took the hint from its cousin, the English spar- 

 row. The nest was admirably placed, protected 

 from the storms by the overhanging eaves and from 

 all eyes by the thick screen of leaves. Only by 

 patiently watching the suspicious bird, as she lin- 

 gered near with food in her beak, did I discover 

 its whereabouts. That brood is safe, I thought, 

 beyond doubt. But it was not: the nest was pil- 

 laged one night, either by an owl, or else by a rat 

 that had climbed into the vine, seeking an entrance 

 to the house. The mother bird, after reflecting 

 upon her ill-luck about a week, seemed to resolve 

 to try a different system of tactics, and to throw all 

 appearances of concealment aside. She built a nest 



