66 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



where the tall thimble blackberries grew in abun- 

 dance, and from which the last young one was 

 taken, when it was about half grown, by some 

 nocturnal walker or daylight prowler, some un- 

 toward fate seemed hovering about them. It was 

 a season of calamities, of violent deaths, of pillage 

 and massacre, among our feathered neighbors. For 

 the first time I noticed that the orioles were not 

 safe in their strong pendent nests. Three broods 

 were started in the apple-trees, only a few yards 

 from the house, where, for several previous seasons, 

 the birds had nested without molestation; but this 

 time the young were all destroyed when about half 

 grown. Their chirping and chattering, which was 

 so noticeable one day, suddenly ceased the next. 

 The nests were probably plundered at night, and 

 doubtless by the little red screech owl, which I 

 know is a denizen of these old orchards, living in 

 the deeper cavities of the trees. The owl could 

 alight upon the top of the nest, and easily thrust 

 his murderous claw down into its long pocket and 

 seize the young and draw them forth. The tragedy 

 of one of the nests was heightened, or at least made 

 more palpable, by one of the half-fledged birds, 

 either in its attempt to escape or while in the 

 clutches of the enemy, being caught and entangled 

 in one of the horse-hairs by which the nest was 

 stayed and held to the limb above. There it hung 

 bruised and dead, gibbeted to its own cradle. This 

 nest was the theatre of another little tragedy later 

 in the season. Some time in August a bluebird, 



