UNDER THE APPLE-TREES 



the other hand, plants and animals overfed or 

 exceptionally prosperous seem to forget the primal 

 command. 



The birds, I repeat, are not easily discouraged. 

 In April of the past year a pair of phoebe-birds built 

 their exquisite mossy nest in a niche in the rocks at 

 the entrance to my natural cellar at Slabsides. It 

 was a nest in the best style of the phoebe's art, built 

 unhurriedly, as all first nests of the season usually 

 are. Like the plant, the bird does not hurry till the 

 season gets late. One snow-white egg was laid, when, 

 on a visit to me of some schoolboys, the nest acci- 

 dentally came to grief; it was detached from the 

 rock upon which the bird had so carefully masoned 

 it. I replaced the nest, but its foundations had been 

 loosened, and the winds dislodged it. The phoebes 

 then began a nest on a timber under the little shed. 

 One day I found this dislodged and its material 

 pulled apart on the ground beneath. Who or what 

 Vandal or Hun of the woods did it, whether a red 

 squirrel or an owl or other violator of its neighbor's 

 rights, I know not. But the phoebes did not lose heart. 

 When I discovered the second calamity that had 

 befallen them, they were already at work building 

 the third nest, and — what was very unusual — were 

 using the material of the nest just destroyed. Bit by 

 bit the mother bird was gathering it up and recon- 

 structing her "procreant cradle." I hoped a third 

 disaster would not befall the pair, and it did not, 



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