NOTES BY THE WAY 



In a shallow, sluggish pond by the roadside, which 

 I used to pass daily in my walk, two nests were 

 in process of construction throughout the month 

 of November. The builders worked only at night, 

 and I could see each day that the work had visibly 

 advanced. When there was a slight skim of ice over 

 the pond, this was broken up about the nests, with 

 trails through it in different directions where the 

 material had been brought. The houses were placed 

 a little to one side of the main channel, and were 

 constructed entirely of a species of coarse wild 

 grass that grew all about. So far as I could see, 

 from first to last they were solid masses of grass, 

 as if the interior cavity or nest was to be excavated 

 afterward, as doubtless it was. As they emerged 

 from the pond they gradually assumed the shape 

 of a miniature mountain, very bold and steep on 

 the south side, and running down a long, gentle 

 grade to the surface of the water on the north. One 

 could see that the little architect hauled all his 

 material up this easy slope, and thrust it out boldly 

 around the other side. Every mouthful was dis- 

 tinctly defined. After they were two feet or more 

 above the water, I expected each day to see that 

 the finishing stroke had been given and the work 

 brought to a close. But higher yet, said the builder. 

 December drew near, the cold became threatening, 

 and I was apprehensive that winter would suddenly 

 shut down upon those unfinished nests. But the 

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