THE WHITE-THROAT. 43 



Had surely passed it in our walk to-day, 



Had chance not led us by it ! Nay, e'en now, 



Had not the old bird heard us trampling by, 



And fluttered out, we had not seen it lie, 



Brown as the roadway side. Small bits of hay 



Plucked from the old propt haystack's bleachy brow, 



And withered leaves, make up its outward wall, 



Which from the gnarl'd oak-dotterel yearly fall, 



And in the old hedge-bottom rot away. 



Built like an oven, through a little hole, 



Scarcely admitting e'en two fingers in, 



Hard to discern, the birds snug entrance win. 



'Tis lined with feathers warm as silken stole, 



Softer than seats of down for painless ease, 



And full of eggs scarce bigger even than peas ! 



Here 's one most delicate, with spots as small 



As dust, and of a faint and pinky red. 



Stop ! here 's the bird that woodman at the gap 



Frightened him from the hedge : 'tis olive green. 



Well ! I declare it is the Pettychap ! 



Not bigger than the Wren, and seldom seen. 



I 've often found her nest in chance's way, 



When I in pathless woods did idly roam; 



But never did I dream until to-day 



A spot like this would be her chosen home. 



COMMON WHITE-THROAT. 



THE WHITE-THROAT (Sylvia cinered), sometimes called 

 the White-throated Warbler, Wheybeard, Wheetee-why, 



