IV. 



THE TRAGEDY OF A NEST. 



NEAR to the Camp, a little closer to beautiful 

 Cheyenne Mountain, lay a small park. It was 

 a continuation of the grove, through which the 

 brook came roaring and tumbling down from 

 the canons above, and, being several miles from 

 the town, it had never become a popular resort. 

 A few winding paths, and a rude bench here 

 and there, were the only signs of man's inter- 

 ference with its native wildness; it was practi- 

 cally abandoned to the birds and me. 



The birds had full possession when I appeared 

 on the scene, and though I did my best to be 

 unobtrusive, my presence was not so welcome as 

 I could have wished. Every morning when I 

 came slowly and quietly up the little path from 

 the gate, bird-notes suddenly ceased ; the gros- 

 beak, pouring out his soul from the top of a 

 pine-tree, dived down the other side; the to- 

 whee, picking up his breakfast on the ground, 

 scuttled behind the bushes and disappeared ; 

 the humming-bird, interrupted in her morning 

 " affairs," flew off over my head, scolding vigor- 



