YOL. XII. NO. 3. 



ALBION, N. Y., MARCH, 1895. 



Whole No. 113 



An Unusual Nest Site of the Phoebe. 



The Phoebe or Pewee Sayormis phcebe. 

 Lath, is perhaps more interestingly 

 Tarious in its habits of niditication than 

 most birds. It teaches us how plastic 

 is that degree of mind which we call 

 instinct, in the hands of environing con- 

 ditions; or, in other words, it shows 

 how capable birds are of making them- 

 selves at home in peculiar and even un- 

 usual circumstances. It would be an 

 interesting study in avian psychology 

 to observe the variation and range of 

 one bird, in nest building, the Pewee 

 for example. For it is only by noting 

 the attitude of a mind toward its sur- 

 I'oundings that we can come to any 

 conclusion as to what place it occupies 

 in the scale of mind, no matter whether 

 the mind be that of a man, "beast," or 

 bird. 



The nest of the Pewee is an intei'est- 

 ing piece of workmanship; so artless, 

 or should I say so artful?— is it as to 

 escape discovery by an inobservant per- 

 son. It ever amounts almost to a sur- 

 prise to the initiated in such u'atters 

 even. Might it not have been a thing 

 of natural growth there on the rough 

 face of the ledge, its wet moss so fresh 

 and green? It is in perfect unity with 

 the cool, dripping, romantic rocks 

 splashed with mosses and lichens, where 

 the shadowed air of the ravine is scent- 

 ed and always cool, and the voice of 

 the Pewee is like a pensive spirit 

 brooding over the place, the mere mem- 

 ory of some recluse mellowed and soft- 

 ened by time into this gentle flower of 

 song. Lowell's sweet little poem, 

 "Phoebe" comes to you in such a place: 



" It is a wee sad-colored thing. 

 As shy and secret as a maid ; 

 That, ere in choir the robin's sing. 

 Pipes its own name like one afraid. 



It seems fain prompted to repeat 

 The story of some ancient ill. 



But Phcehe ! Phoebe ! sadly sweet 

 Is all it says, and then Is still." 



What naturalist or oologist does not 

 remember the delight wherewith he dis- 

 covered his first Pewee's nest! Away 

 down the road perhaps, under the 

 bridge near the old mill it was that the 

 barefooted novitiate found the dainty 

 affair plastered on the side of a hewn 

 beam. He can recall the picture yet 

 and the enthusiasm of the moment; al- 

 though he does not go barefooted now, 

 neither does he go into ecstacies over 

 anything so cheap as a Pewee's nest. 

 The more is the pity. Nevertheless 

 some of the old feeling comes back to 

 him with the memory of the pool with 

 its reflection of the nest and bridge and 

 the shadow of the leaving bird and the 

 boy standing knee-deep in water con- 

 templating the white gems to be car- 

 ried home and added to the jewels in 

 that casket so precious in the eyes of a 

 wild sweet boy — a box of birds eggs. 

 It is somewhat worth while to have 

 been a naturalist or oologist to have 

 such memories; to have your dreams of 

 the past so tangled up and woven in 

 with the seasons and phases of nature. 

 To grow green and young again from 

 spring to spring as old Earth does, and 

 add another green growth to your ex- 

 ternal rind. 



It is worth while to have lived — I 

 should say, in spite of the nestrobber, 

 — reformers — if you have been a boy- 

 naturalist. 



This is something of the proper fruit 

 a life should yield; such clusters as we 

 would not sell, and such perhaps, as 

 nobody would buy, yet, something at 

 least and at last in these days of dol- 

 lars whereof money cannot reckon 

 the value. If a lover of nature cannot 



