220 Bird - Lore 



The Catbirds were the only residents who disputed my equal rights in the 

 ravine. The others may have thought a good deal, but they never said anything. 

 They either avoided me, or ignored me, or tolerated me. The Catbirds would 

 do none of those things. They were especially ferocious when I chose the 

 stump-seat among the service-berry bushes. The fact that I was usually armed 

 with 'Walden' did not appease them a particle, although I am unalterably per- 

 suaded that it should have done so. There might be a moment's peace, then 

 wo-ow, wo-ow, wo-ow! here they came, sometimes both, sometimes only one. 

 Inquisitively they tipped their heads and eyed me boldly. Indignantly they 

 jerked their tails, showing the reddish patch beneath. Incessantly they flitted 

 from bush to bush, just out of reach, yelling at me every few moments: wo-ow, 

 wo-ow, wo-ow! I forgave them later on, when I found out where the nest had 

 been hidden. I could almost have reached it from where I sat. The next 

 summer, luckily for the nerves of all concerned, the Catbirds built beyond the 

 bridge; and though they still scolded me once in awhile, they had to make a 

 special trip to do it and it was not such a convincing performance. 



They would have been much improved if they could have taken a few 

 lessons in good manners from the Black-headed Grosbeaks who built that 

 year in the bushes on the other side of the stump-seat. In the matter of archi- 

 tecture, it is about six of one and half a dozen of the other, but the Grosbeaks 

 are much more agreeable neighbors. The down from the willows was lying 

 thickly on the ground and clinging to the bushes when the Grosbeak nestlings 

 broke through the shells. I had to look twice and see those gaping mouths 

 open wide before I realized that three tiny birds filled the nest, and not willow 

 fluff. I never saw the youngsters after they grew big enough to move around a 

 little. The Grosbeaks were as shy as they were quiet; and they hid the httle 

 ones so skilfully in the thicket that finding them would have created more 

 disturbance than I cared to make. 



Better luck attended my acquaintance with a Flycatcher family. One 

 summer afternoon I was at leisure to sit still long enough to satisfy the bird 

 proprieties. The flowers, the bees, and the butterflies keep right on about their 

 usual affairs under any amount of restless curiosity, but the birds have more 

 reserve. The sun was rather too warm for comfort on the stump, so I sat at 

 the foot of one of the twin pines that stood in the ravine and reached a long 

 way towards the clouds. A clump of willow, service-berry, and wild rose 

 bushes cast a welcome shade. The brook trickled through the bushes and 

 around the roots of the big pine. I did not have the least idea that there were 

 nestlings in the thicket; but when a dainty, Quaker-gray bird, with a slightly 

 raised crest, lit on a willow branch above my head, then popped into the rose 

 bushes, I rolled my eyes and craned my neck in that direction immediately. 

 I have never felt free to take the liberties with birds and their families that 

 some people take. Usually, I do no more than sit tight and hope they won't 

 mind if I stare. This pair of Wright's Flycatchers proved very amiable. They 



