The Wit of the Wild 



r 



July 14. The wood-thrusK, presumably, is 

 rejoicing in success; at any rate three young 

 ones are squirming about in the bottom of the 

 nest this morning. A friend wishes to photo- 

 graph them, so this afternoon we parted the 

 twigs in front of the nest and clipped off some 

 of them to expose it to view more clearly, the 

 familiar bird paying very little attention to our 

 tinkering. 



July 15. Last night fell dark, and at mid- 

 night a storm of wind and rain beat upon us 

 for three or four hours. The photographer 

 came over about nine o'clock, but when we went 

 to the thrush's nest it was empty. No commo- 

 tion had been heard, such as an owl or black- 

 snake would arouse; and there were no marks 

 of violence about the nest indicating that it 

 had been harmed by the tempest or by a ma- 

 rauder. Yet the home was desolate. I knew 

 of a precisely similar and unexplained disaster 

 overtaking the brood of a vireo last year. 



These ever-recurring tragedies lend a tinge 

 of awe and sadness to all nature-study. After 



*>$ 68 



