86 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 



And when not hunting, how silent and motion- 

 less they sit, the phoebe on the ridgepole of a 

 barn, the wood pewee on a twig in the flickering 

 sunlight and shade of the green woods ; neither 

 of them uttering more than an occasional note, 

 and scarcely stirring unless to look over their 

 shoulders. 



Though the pho3be and wood pewee look so 

 much alike, in reality they are as much at odds 

 as a farmer and a poet. Unlike the nest of the 

 phoabe, the wood pewee's is essentially woodsy 

 and distinctive. It is an exquisite little structure, 

 saddled on to a lichen-covered limb. Made of fine 

 roots and delicate stems of grass and seed pods, 

 it is covered with bits of lichen or moss glued on 

 with saliva, so that like the humming-bird's nest it 

 seems to be a knob on the branch. It is a shallow 

 little nest, and the four richly crowned c*reamy 

 eggs, though tiny enough in themselves, leave 

 little room for the body of the brooding mother. 



In temper the phoabe is so prosaic that we nat- 

 urally connect it with the beams of barns and 

 cow sheds ; while the wood pewee, associated with 

 the cool depths of the forest, is fitted to inspire 

 poets, and to stir the deepest chords of human 

 nature with its plaintive, far-reaching voice. 



It has moods for all of ours. Its faint, lisping 



