88 WINTER 



an increase of architectural wisdom necessary to 

 meet all the conditions of the new hollow. The mor- 

 tar or glue, which, I imagine, held firmly in the 

 empty trees, will not mix with the chimney soot, so 

 that the nest, especially when crowded with young, 

 is easily loosened by the rain, and sometimes even 

 broken away by the slight wing stroke of a descend- 

 ing swallow, or by the added weight of a parent bird 

 as it settles with food. 



We little realize how frequent fear is among the 

 birds and animals, and how often it proves fatal. 

 A situation that would have caused no trouble 

 ordinarily, becomes through sudden fright a tangle 

 or a trap. I have known many a quail to bolt into 

 a fast express train and fall dead. Last winter I left 

 the large door of the barn open, so that my flock of 

 juncos could feed inside upon the floor. They found 

 their way into the hayloft and went up and down 

 freely. On two or three occasions I happened in so 

 suddenly that they were thoroughly frightened and 

 flew madly into the cupola to escape through the 

 windows. They beat against the glass until utterly 

 dazed, and would have perished there, had I not 

 climbed up later and brought them down. So thou- 

 sands of the migrating birds perish yearly by flying 

 wildly against the dazzling lanterns of the light- 

 houses, and thousands more either lose their course 

 in the thick darkness of the stormy nights, or else 

 are blown out of it, and drift far away to sea. 



