The Friendly Phoebe 



By CLINTON G. ABBOTT 

 With Photographs by the Author 



UNTIL we opened our summer home on May 15, the Phoebes had the 

 broad veranda all to themselves. From their nest on a pillar in the 

 corner, they could look peacefully out over smooth walls and floor, 

 unbroken even by the presence of a chair; and this empty 'cavern' doubtless 

 suggested to their minds an admirable counterpart to the weather-worn cliffs 

 where their ancestors had placed their nests for generations before man began 

 to build houses and verandas. 



Then in a day all was changed. Awnings, rugs, and becushioned chairs 

 suddenly appeared, of a brilliance quite unsuited to the taste and nerves of a 

 demure Phoebe. The 'cleaning ladies,' who prepared the house for our arrival, 

 apologized that they had not removed the unsightly mass of moss and mud 

 from the pillar top, because "they were not sure that Mr. Abbott would want 

 to have a bird's nest destroyed." They were right; Mr. Abbott and his whole 

 family found the nest a center of great interest and education from the very 

 first day. 



The initial problem was to see whether the Phoebes, who had five eggs in 

 their nest, could adjust themselves to the sudden and complete change in 

 their immediate surroundings. More terrifying than the furniture were now, 

 doubtless, the people who constantly moved to and fro upon the veranda. 

 The children, who seemed to have a way of wanting to play directly beneath 

 the nest, must have been particularly disquieting. Certainly the first few 

 days following the arrival of the human family were hectic ones for the na- 

 turally retiring Phoebes. At every opening of a screen-door — even at the moving 

 of a book — Mrs. Phoebe would spring from her nest in alarm. Then a long 

 period of hesitation and tail-twitching would ensue before she could pluck up 

 courage enough to return to her eggs. She would flit nervously to the tip of 

 a young spruce, then to a syringa bush, then to the rain-water gutter, then 

 back again to the spruce — and repeat the round. Sometimes she would thought- 

 lessly settle for a moment upon one of the outer branches of a certain lilac 

 bush, only to be promptly ousted, with loud bill-snappings, by a pair of irate 

 Robins who had their home there. 



It was almost pathetic to watch the poor Phoebe's mental conflict between 

 the instincts of self-protection and love for her eggs, and more than once we 

 really hoped that she would abandon the struggle, with consequent peace of 

 mind, not only to herself, but us! Indeed, once or twice we were sure that she 

 had reached this decision, when she remained absent from the veranda for 

 hours, and could be observed in the distance playfully twittering and caressing 

 her mate, as though in anticipation of a fresh nest. But nightfall always found 

 her back upon her eggs, and to her credit let it be said that within a week 



(7S) 



