MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



it over and examines it carefully. Now she takes 

 her flight, but the paper trails through the air 

 after her. Back into the grove she goes, over tow- 

 ard the wood-thrush corner; let us follow her. 

 That flaunting bit of paper is to be the founda- 

 tion for her nest. A strange choice, is it not? But 

 Mr. Burroughs tells us that the wood-thrush has 

 a curious habit " of starting its nest with a frag- 

 ment of newspaper or other paper. Except in 

 remote woods I think it always puts a piece of 

 paper in the foundation of its nest." 



This is certainly a secret-disclosing hour. The 

 little creatures of the woods seem wonderfully 

 off their guard. Perhaps they have some intui- 

 tion of the love and reverence with which we 

 look upon these sacred scenes. A beautiful robin 

 carrying a beakful of building material has just 

 entered that tall elm; and a cat-bird on a sim- 

 ilar errand disappears in the intricacies of the 

 hedge. 



But on beyond is a nook of revelations to 

 which I would lead you. It is a place that I have 

 fairly haunted since our April-day stroll. Its 

 trees, its hedges, its low underbrush tangle, its 

 shade, its security, -and its nearness to the little 

 pools where feathered bathers congregate all 



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