232 DAYS OUT OF DOORS. 



acter that a chance meeting will never afford. I came to 

 look upon these cunning wrens as creatures that thought, 

 and I hold, indeed, that we should so look upon all 

 birds. 



Away from camp, down in the tangle of the wild 

 Brush Creek bottom, I found many a cunning bird. How 

 cleverly, just as I leveled my field-glass, they all eluded 

 pursuit and disappeared in the caves along the cliff, or, if 

 not there, in the cavernous old dead sycamores ! Cardi- 

 nals, jays, titmice, sparrows, fly-catchers, and wrens, they 

 all knew they were upon dangerous ground, and shunned 

 au^iving creatures but themselves. 



Why dangerous ground ? Those rocky ledges, draped 

 with impenetrable growths, were the black-snakes' para- 

 dise; the bleached and hollow trees that stood like so 

 many ghastly sentinels along the creek's crooked shores 

 ambushed innumerable hawks and owls. There was scarce- 

 ly a cave but harbored a mink, a raccoon, or a skunk ; 

 while in the dark pools into which the rippling waters 

 ominously disappeared lurked the wily soft-shelled turtles 

 that have a serpent's neck and head, with also their agility 

 and cunning. In such a spot it behooved the harmless 

 and helpless birds to be cunning and careful, for their 

 safety lay only in their quickness of wit. When I saw 

 what hosts of enemies surrounded them I did not wonder 

 at their wildness. 



Within a stone's throw of my home in New Jersey 

 these same birds are abundant, but there their foes are 

 few. I can always approach reasonably near to them 

 without difficulty. They quickly learn that here they are 

 comparatively safe. A few months ago I chanced upon a 

 nest of the small green-crested fly-catcher without disturb- 

 ing the sitting bird. Twice daily after that I visited the 

 nest to see if I could have so remarkable an experience as 

 did a friend with another sitting bird. Before the young 



