50 WAKE-ROBIN 



coward, and shows the white feather at the slightest 

 display of pluck in his antagonist. I have seen him 

 turn tail to a swallow, and have known the little 

 pewee in question to whip him beautifully. From 

 the great-crested to the little green flycatcher, their 

 ways and general habits are the same. Slow in 

 flying from point to point, they yet have a wonder- 

 ful quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with 

 little apparent effort. There is a constant play of 

 quick, nervous movements underneath their outer 

 show of calmness and stolidity. They do not scour 

 the limbs and trees like the warblers, but, perched 

 upon the middle branches, wait, like true hunters, 

 for the game to come along. There is often a very 

 audible snap of the beak as they seize their prey. 



The wood pewee, the prevailing species in this 

 locality, arrests your attention by his sweet, pathetic 

 cry. There is room for it also in the deep woods, 

 as well as for the more prolonged and elevated 

 strains. 



Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite 

 nest of moss on the side of some shelving cliff or 

 overhanging rock. The other day, passing by a 

 ledge near the top of a mountain in a singularly 

 desolate locality, my eye rested upon one of these 

 structures, looking precisely as if it grew there, so 

 in keeping was it with the mossy character of the 

 rock, and I have had a growing affection for the 

 bird ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest 

 and to claim it as its own. I said, what a lesson 

 in architecture is here ! Here is a house that was 



