£be Mar bier 31 



noisy chirping as they hunted gnats on the rough bark of the tree. Up I 

 went, up and out on the small but tough branches. I reached the nest, lift- 

 ed the bottom up so that by slipping my finger down the entrance way I 

 could feel the eggs. Yes, there they were, a nestful. I took out my knife 

 preparatory to cutting off the branch, when, dab, something hit me on the 

 cheek and in another moment the air was full of bees. Right above me, 

 barely three feet from my head was a huge swarm, hanging like some great 

 wasp's nest from a limb. 



Apparently I had shaken them up in moving out on the branch to the 

 nest and they were getting restless. I knew enough about bees to know 

 that if I went on about my business the chances were that the little stingers 

 would go on about theirs. And they did; I came back safely, nest and all. 

 In the treasure house were seven perfectly fresh eggs — a beautiful set, both 

 for size and incubation. Small and white, not so large as the egg of the 

 Lawrence's Goldfinch, yet resembling them in outline, these are among the 

 most attractive of all white eggs to me. 



This nest was nothing less than a work of art, and so typical was it of 

 the best in Bush-Tit architecture that I will attempt to describe it to you: 

 In the first place it was sixteen inches long, a monster for size, by fully four 

 inches in thickness. The bottom four inches was closely woven and entire- 

 ly solid, a felted mass of willow and sycamore seed-down. Through it were 

 scattered at random the silver seeds of some milkweed, giving to the exteri- 

 or a peculiarly beautiful mottled appearance. Evidently the winds blew 

 quite strongly down this little canyon for this bit of ballast could not have 

 weighed less than two ounces — amply sufficient to hold the airy cradle in a 

 very rough wind. I have found these nests in sheltered places, where the 

 wind seldom blew, and they would have a scant one inch of flooring; this, 

 however, was the thickest and heaviest nest I have ever seen. 



On the inside the bed of the nest was lined with a layer- of floss from 

 the seeds of the milkweed (all the hard seed capsules removed, mind you,) 

 fully half an inch in thickness. In it the tiny eggs were all but hidden from 

 sight, and I could not help thinking into what a warm and downy cradle 

 the featherless young would have come. Above this for a good inch the 

 wall all round was so closely woven and felted that it did not seem possible 

 for any air to enter. Behind all this, however, there was a reason, and the 

 reason was this. Above the solid wall — just high enough to protect the 

 whole of the young birds' bodies — the tightness of weaving relaxed and a 

 perfect openwork lattice admitted all the air that youngsters or mother 

 could possibly require. All of this was bound together with wonderful 

 firmness by means of nothing that I could find but spider webs. The glut- 

 inous secretion with which Hummingbirds and Gnatcatchers are provided 

 seems to be wanti ng here, but the Tits have been more than equal to the 

 demands of the situation. 



