THE WEAVER OF THE WEST 



I LAY on my back under the hemlock and marvelled 

 at the little mansion hanging in the glint of the warm 

 June sun. Yes, a real bird mansion. Not open-roofed, for 

 impudent passers-by to spy out family secrets; not set in 

 a crotch, so that it could be tipped over or blown out, but 

 carefully tied, cradlelike, to the drooping branches, where 

 it could be rocked by the playing breezes. 



It's not a small matter to get a site suited for a Bush- 

 tit's (Psaltriparus minimus) mansion. There should be 

 one or two firm, upright twigs about which to weave the 

 walls, a cross branch or two for rafters, and, if the house 

 is to be modern, a little support for a porch or promenade. 

 Contrary to our first rule for success, these little builders 

 begin at the top and build down, first weaving the roof, 

 leaving a round door, and then the hallway down to the 

 main living-room. Each is the architect of his own home, 

 and each is a born master builder. 



Once I found a bush-tit's nest twenty inches long. The 

 little weavers had started their home on a limb, and appar- 

 ently it was not low enough to suit them, for they wove 

 a fibrous strap ten inches long, and then swung their 

 gourd-shaped nest to that, so it hung in a tussock of willow 

 leaves. 



I happened to find the nest in the hemlock when they 



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