Birds of My Garden 



III. THE NESTING-TIME 

 By MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT 



Hither the busy birds shall flutter 



With the light timber for their nests, 

 And, pausing from their labor, utter 



The morning sunshine in their breasts. 



EA^EN though all but a scant dozen of the familiar birds begin their 

 housekeeping in May, and a few like the Bluebird, Robin, etc., in 

 April, June is conceded to be the universal nesting month. By the 

 first week of June the last laggard Blackpoll, Canadian Warbler and Gray- 

 cheeked Thrush has moved on, and the garden takes on all the attributes of 

 a cottage colony. 



No matter how much time one- has spent far afield in the aggressive quest 

 of bird life in the nesting season, no matter what peeps at rare nests and 

 genuine ornithological thrills it may have afforded, the opposite side of the 

 picture, where conditions are reversed and the bird becomes the visitor, has 

 an entirely different and more intimate charm; while the surprises are as 

 great, and even more dramatic, because they take place on familiar ground. 



Because one has lived in the same place for twenty-five years, watched the 

 pines and spruces grow skyward until beneath their thorny branches a sturdy 

 second generation is doing its best to keep the mysterious cycle of life intact, 

 it is not safe to assume that we know all about it, or ever shall; so endless 

 are the resources of nature when it comes to sheltering her very own. War 

 has been waged relentlessly for years against that arch egg-thief, the red 

 squirrel; and yet he is with us still — cheerful, unabashed, attractive and 

 prolific. 



Rabbit-hounds share the ownership of the place equally with their master 

 and mistress, being the captains-in-chief of the cat patrol, with well-under- 

 stood orders to execute all prisoners captured without benefit of trial. Yet, 

 one April morning this year, when the odors of night, with a mere nip of 

 frost, left the scent so heavy and irresistible that the hounds, noses down and 

 tails held gaily, picked up a trail and followed it full cry, at their own sweet 

 will, before they were a quarter of a mile away, there appeared upon the lawn 

 three Molly Cottontails, who breakfasted upon the tender grass in a most 

 leisurely fashion! Evidently they have a warren under a rustic house with 

 a strong brick foundation, and the chain of stone fences act as their highways. 

 The lying down of the lion and the lamb in harmony, surely, is not more 

 strange than that the hunter and the hunted should both live happily in one 

 garden. 



The Robin is surely a conspicuous bird, for his size, song, nesting habits, 



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