€i}t BiCKi of ii}t Banb 



Here is a pretty story. But who will tell it to me? 



What followed is a pretty story, too, had I a 

 lover's pen with which to write it, — the story of his 

 love, of their love, and of her love especially, which 

 was last and best. 



For several days after she came the weather con- 

 tinued raw and wet, so that nest-building was greatly 

 delayed. The scar of an old, last year's nest still 

 showed on a stringer, and I wondered if they had 

 decided on this or some other site for the new nest. 

 They had not made up their minds, for when they 

 did start it was to make three beginnings. 



Then I offered a suggestion. Out of a bit of stick, 

 branching at right angles, I made a little bracket 

 and tacked it up on one of the stringers, down near 

 the lower end of the roof. It appealed to the birds 

 at once, and from that moment the building went 

 steadily on. 



Saddled upon this bracket, as well as mortared to 

 the stringer, the nest, when finished, was as safe 

 as a castle. And how perfect a thing ! Few nests, 

 indeed, combine the solidity, the softness, and the 

 exquisite curve of phoebe's. 



In placing the bracket, I had carelessly nailed it 

 i66 



