IN THE HEMLOCKS 



trees, I step down to bathe my hands in the brook, 

 when a small, light slate-colored bird flutters out of 

 the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop 

 down, and, as if severely lamed or injured, flutters 

 through the grass and into the nearest bush. As I 

 do not follow, but remain near the nest, she chips 

 sharply, which brings the male, and I see it is the 

 speckled Canada warbler. I find no authority in 

 the books for this bird to build upon the ground, 

 yet here is the nest, made chiefly of dry grass, set in 

 a slight excavation in the bank not two feet from 

 the water, and looking a little perilous to anything 

 but ducklings or sandpipers. There are two young 

 birds and one little speckled egg just pipped. But 

 how is this ? what mystery is here ? One nestling 

 is much larger than the other, monopolizes most of 

 the nest, and lifts its open mouth far above that 

 of its companion, though obviously both are of the 

 same age, not more than a day old. Ah! I see; 

 the old trick of the cow bunting, with a stinging 

 human significance. Taking the interloper by the 

 nape of the neck, I deliberately drop it into the 

 water, but not without a pang, as I see its naked 

 form, convulsed with chills, float downstream. 

 Cruel ? So is Nature cruel. I take one life to save 

 two. In less than two days this pot-bellied intruder 

 would have caused the death of the two rightful 

 occupants of the nest ; so I step in and turn things 

 into their proper channel again. 

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