AN UNNAMED BIRD. 145 



Now and then I got a hint of family matters. 

 My two little friends were working together, and 

 occasionally I saw a bit of moss put in ; but it 

 was evident that the main part of the work was 

 over. One day I waited half an hour, and when 

 the bird came it acted as if it had really done all 

 that was necessary, and only returned for the sake 

 of being about its pretty home. 



The birds said a good deal up in the oak, some- 

 times in sweet lisping tones, as though talking to 

 themselves about the nest. They often flew away 

 from it not far over my head. The call note was 

 a loud whistle whee-it f and the bird gave it 

 so rapidly that I once took out my watch to time 

 him, after which he called seventy times in sixty 

 seconds. Often after whistling loudly he would 

 give a soft low call. His clear ringing voice was 

 one of the most cheering in the valley. 



When the building seemed done and I was look- 

 ing forward to the brooding, as the birds would 

 then, perforce, be more about the nest, one sad 

 morning I rode up through the oaks and found 

 the beautiful moss cup torn and dangling from 

 its branch. It was the keenest disappointment 

 of the nesting season, and there had been many. 

 The pretty acquaintance to whose renewal I had 

 looked forward so many years was now ended. 



Again I had to leave California without being 

 able to name my winning little friends. If I 

 had been too much interested in them before to 



