BIRD'S-NESTING 117 



saw in that marsh. As my vision was limited to a 

 range of about two feet, I did not see many more 

 birds personally. In spite of my blinded condition, 

 I did discover, however, another prothonotary 's 

 nest. I had taken hold of a rotten willow-stub while 

 pushing the boat through a thicket. It broke in my 

 hand, and there, in an exposed downy woodpecker's 

 hole, was a newly made nest of green moss, with a 

 few twigs and bark-strips on top, but no eggs. The 

 fourth and last nest was found by the Banker, again 

 in a downy 's hole. He saw something move and 

 thought it was a mouse or chickadee. Finally a 

 long bill came out of the hole and then a head. It 

 was a hen prothonotary building her nest. She had 

 the hole already filled with moss, and was bringing 

 in grass, and would whirl around and around inside, 

 modeling the nest carefully. Within, she had lined it 

 with grass, just as a chipping sparrow's nest is lined 

 with hair. 



This was the last nest of the day. The Banker 

 suggested that we stay over another night, but I 

 felt that home was the best place for a blind man. 

 My last memory of the golden prothonotary was 

 hearing him call, "Tweet, tweet, tweet" from the 

 willows, as we started back to the mill. 



The last of my nesting-trips was on July 7th. The 

 Artist in some mysterious way had learned the secret 

 of Tern Island, one of the few places on the New 

 Jersey coast where the Wilson tern still nests. In a 

 rickety old power-boat— probably it was the first one 

 ever built— we traveled haltingly through the most 



