THE RAVEN'S NEST 77 



tions, I thrust my left arm up as far as I could, and 

 found a hand-hold on the slippery rock. After getting 

 my breath, I managed to wriggle up through the 

 crevice and lay safe on the top of the tongue. The 

 niche above was not large enough for us both, so 

 the Collector came down while I took his place. 

 I was lashed by a freezing rain, my numb hands were 

 cut and bleeding, and there were ten weary miles 

 still ahead. Yet that moment was worth all that it 

 cost. There is an indescribable fascination and 

 triumph in sharing a secret with the wild-folk, which 

 can be understood only by the initiate. The living 

 naturalists who had looked into the home of the 

 Northern raven in Pennsylvania could be counted on 

 the thumb and first three fingers of one hand. At 

 last the little finger belonged to me. 



The deep cup of the nest was about one foot in 

 diameter and over a yard across on the outside. 

 It was firmly anchored on the shelf of rock, the 

 structure being built into the crevices and made 

 entirely of dead oak branches, some of them fully 

 three quarters of an inch in diameter. It looked from 

 a distance like an enormous crow's nest. The cup 

 itself was some six inches deep, and lined with red 

 and white deer-hair and some long black hairs which 

 were probably those of a skunk. Inside, it had a 

 little damp green moss; while the rim was made of 

 green birch twigs bruised and hackled by the beaks 

 of the builders. On this day, March 9, 1918, there 

 were no eggs, although in a previous year the Collec- 

 tor had found two as early as February 25, when 



