WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 



of coarse twigs artlessly laid in any thick shrubbery or evergreen 

 being the rule. Frequently I have been able to tell whether a 

 Dove's nest contained eggs or young birds by standing under it 

 and looking up through the bottom. 



This nest was built of fine material, and, no doubt to make it 

 inconspicuous, everything used in its construction harmonized 

 with the shades of color in the rails, until at a distance the nest, 

 seen on a level with the rail, looked like a knot in the wood. There 

 were two delicate, opalescent white eggs in it, as is the rule, and 

 all around it and overhanging it was a thicket of maple sprouts. 



I have made studies of Doves' nests in March, when there was 

 a skiff of snow on the ground, all the way through the spring 

 and until July, and in every location, and of every construction 

 imaginable, but this was the most perfect picture and the most 

 individual piece of architecture I yet had seen. I always have 

 had a good opinion of Doves. They compel that by their charm- 

 ing characteristics and absolute harmlessness. These Doves gave 

 me a deeper respect for the whole species by proving their sense 

 in constructing this nest. 



Had they piled on this rail a rough little heap of their ordi- 

 nary construction, I should have said, "Doves' usual work! It's 

 to be hoped the eggs won't roll out!" Before that nest I held 

 my breath. 



"Oh, Bob," I cried. "Oh, Bob! Do you see what they have 

 done ? Do you see how they have kept to the coloring of the fence 

 and built to look like a knot-hole, just as surely as ever Flycatcher 

 did?" 



"By Jove!" exclaimed Bob. "That's a fact! I didn't know 

 they had that much sense." 



Neither did I. But now that it is proven, my estimation of the 



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