166 ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 
had seen it finishing its season a full month 
earlier. I stopped, of course, to pluck a 
blossom. At that moment a female redbird 
flew out of the bush. Her mate was beside 
her instantly, and a nameless something in 
their manner told me they were trying to 
keep a secret. The nest, built mainly of 
pine needles and other leaves, was in the 
middle of the bush, a foot or two from the 
grass, and contained two bluish or greenish 
eggs thickly spattered with dark brown. I 
meant to look into it again (the owners 
seemed to have no great objection), but 
somehow missed it every time I passed. 
From that point, as far as I went, the road 
was lined with Cherokee roses, — not con- 
tinuously, but with short intermissions; and 
from the number of redbirds seen, almost 
invariably in pairs, I feel safe in saying that 
the nest I had found was probably one of 
fifteen or twenty scattered along the way- 
side. How gloriously the birds sang! It 
was their day for singing. I was ready to 
christen the road anew, — Redbird Road. 
But the redbirds, many and conspicuous 
as they were, had no monopoly of the road 
or of the day. House wrens were equally 
