AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 327 



MRS. PHOEBE'S DOMESTIC DIFFICULTIES. 



"Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoeberic," that tells me that the Phoebe's have 

 arrived. I know where to look for him, but he repeats his call note, 

 perhaps a dozen times, before I discover him on the barn. 



He is about the size of an English sparrow, but is shaped like a King- 

 bird. His upper parts are a dull slate, the head and tail being darker 

 than the back. Underparts are light ash. 



The Phoebe deserves to be called the Great Flycatcher, for that 

 seems to be one of his chief occupations. He even interrupts his call 

 to dart after one. 



Well, Mrs. Phoebe decided it was time to go to housekeeping, and 

 after looking at several other places, decided that the ledge in the top 

 of our north porch was just the right place for a home. She would fly 

 into the porch and hover quite a minute, chattering all the time, and I 

 imagined she said, "Its too high for a cat to reach, I can see when the 

 door is opened, so I'll not be taken by surprise, and that post at the 

 corner of the flower bed will be just the place to rest after a long chase 

 after flies." 



The next day they began carrying mud but only succeeded in drop- 

 ping enough for a nest on the floor. The ledge was too narrow and 

 the mud not of a good quality for nest material. They worked so hard 

 that after two or three days we took pity on them and tacked up a 

 shingle. They soon had the foundation laid and began to rear the sup- 

 erstructure, which was composed of fragments of cedar bark, wool, and 

 string, also a few horse hairs, with a lining of wool, feathers and other 

 soft material. They mix the other material with the mud much as 

 masons do plaster, which gives the nest a fuzzy appearance. 



There were four little white eggs when she began to sit. Soon af- 

 ter this I missed the male bird and I neither saw nor heard him till the 

 young birds were nearly ready to fly. 



The poor little mother had to work early and late to keep them fed, 

 but even that was not enough. After he came back he would not let 

 her feed them, when she flew to the nest he would chase her out before 

 she could alight. Often she would try a dozen times before she suc- 

 ceeded. 



One day we heard him making a great fuss and on going to the win- 

 dow, saw him take one of the birds from the nest and drop it on the 

 porch floor. Mother picked it up and found a hole under its wing 

 where he had struck his bill. It gasped a minute and died. He kept 

 at it and watched his chance till he had killed them all, then began 

 calling, "Phoebe, Phoebe, S-w-e-e-t Phoebe," I thought, Oh, yes, you 

 little heathen I'd like to wring your neck. 



