30 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 



ing the brownish white, deeply speckled eggs and 

 noting the details of the nest. But the best way 

 is to keep perfectly still and let the birds show 

 me just where the nest is, though of course it is 

 only a matter of a few minutes more or less. I sit 

 down in the grass, pull the timothy stems over my 

 dress, make myself look as much as possible like 

 a meadow, and keep one eye on the bobolinks, 

 while appearing to be absorbed with an object on 

 the other side. But they are better actors than I. 



Twitter-itter-itter the anxious mother reiterates 

 in a high key as she hovers suggestively over a 

 tuft of grass a few rods away. So soon ! My 

 impatience can hardly be restrained. But the 

 father is coming. 



Lingkum - lingkum - lingkum, he vociferates 

 loudly, hovering over a bunch of weeds in just 

 the opposite direction. By this time the mother 

 is atilt of another timothy stem in a new place, 

 looking as if just ready to fly down to her nest. 

 And so they keep it up. I examine all the weeds 

 and tussocks of grass they point out. On nearing 

 one of them, the mother flies about my head with 

 a show of the greatest alarm ; my hopes reach 

 certainty there is nothing there ! I look under 

 every nodding buttercup and spreading daisy for 

 yards around only to see Mrs. Robert of Lincoln 

 hovering above a spot she had avoided before. 

 The next day I offer a reward to two children if 

 they will find the nest, but the birds probably 



