128 THE NIDOLOGIST 
and not risk undue weakening. Butif the 
“‘frill’’ exists,there is but one rule: ‘‘Hands 
off’’—till it dries. The pine board with 
its precious prisoners is now laid away in 
some safe and dust-free place. In the morn- 
ing we liberate the negatives. On one or 
two there are specks, dried to the chemical 
side. But we have learned to leave there 
scrupulously alone. The negatives roll up, 
of course. But there is a trick worth know- 
ing: 
A “ponderous volume’’ is taken, not; of 
course the Family Bible, but; perhaps, that 
long disused Greek Lexicon, quarto. It is 
laid on a table, before us,the back from us, 
the back cover, with afew leaves, being 
opened dowu before us. Both hands are 
used to spread the negative, flat and well 
back from the outer margins, on the open 
page. Theleft hand holds the negatives in 
place, while the right brings down, and 
over, a dozen leaves of the book. As the 
left hand is slipped out, toward the oper- 
ator, the right follows it above the leaves. 
The left then holds down this portion of the 
book, while the right places another negat- 
ive, and so, ad fine. 
In a few days the negatives will be seas- 
oned. ‘They may then be trimmed, with a 
sharp pen knife, by laying them under a 
metal edge ruler on a soft pine surface— 
care being taken to hold them in place 
firmly to avoid fraying the film or making 
a rough edge. And now we print, waiting 
fora clear, bright sun,having glass perfectly 
clean, keeping dust and lint wiped away, 
reading something not to engrossing while 
the beautiful sun-god does its work. Our 
thin negatives develop in twenty seconds— 
our dark ones in twenty minutes; thus the 
thin ones bear watching. 
Herein lies both the end of our labors 
and the happy reward of our hopes; for 
“‘fate’’ is always better to us than our 
worst fears, and the soft, beautiful “aristo” 
or ‘‘Kloro’’ print is often far better than 
the negative would ever have allowed us to 
expect. My brother-amateurs will surely 
pardon me if I have seemed didactic. I 
have not written for them, but for those 
poor larval fellows, that are, today, just 
picking out a camera to begin, next April, 
the study of our art. A warm sympathy 
with them makes us unwilling that they 
should fall into our mistakes; and, more- 
over, we shall often still, be one of them, 
ourselves! 
I found a Brown Thrush’s nest, on 
a wooded prairie hill-side that bordered a 
lake. ‘The top of a choke-cherry bush had 
broken sheer over, so that the prongs of 
two main stem-branches pointed down- 
ward. ‘The bush, or more properly, sapling, 
was overgrown with wild grapevines. The 
nest, fully concealed, lay just behind the 
crotch, and was found by the flying away 
of the sitting bird The nest was except- 
ionally perfect, and the set a rare one; the 
only set of five I have ever seen or heard 
of, and the eggs all uniformly stippled, on 
a pale ground with specks as ‘‘red’’ as are 
ever found on eggs ot the Texas Thrasher. 
But the whole lay in the shade. One month 
later, I brought back the eggs under a 
brilliant sun, at eleven A. M. just in time. 
A little careful breaking or bending away 
of leafy twigs or stray leaves, and the nest 
and eggs lay bare to the sun. And then I 
mounted the step-ladder which moment- 
arily threatened to tumble with me down 
thehill. ButI went up carefully, squirmed 
my body out of my light, and dd ¢he rest. 
An aquatic picture gives me lively 
satisfaction in the reminiscence. It proves 
a number of things, among others, that the 
presence of ‘‘Mamma'’ and that growing 
young Ornithologist are by no means pre- 
judicied to camerizing, and that six o’clock 
Pp. M. of a June day in Southern Minnesota, 
on the water, in none too late for snap- 
shots, at least, with certain environments. 
Rowing, rapidly among sparse growth 
ofrushes, with here and there a Coot’s-nest, 
having just done photographic justice to 
nests of Forster’s Tern, and Night Heron, 
Coot, Florida, Gallinuie, and Yellow-headed 
Blackbird, I noted, fifty feet away, a small. 
patch of refuse lying on an open bit of 
water, among the Tern-eggs-laden musk- 
rat houses. 
‘““Mamma,’’ said I, ‘‘there’s a nest.’’ 
‘‘Where?’’ ‘‘Right there,’’ (pointing.) 
In answer to her quizzical look I sent the 
boat flying along side the uninteresting bit 
of mass. Instant!y off camea glove, and 
the gingerly examining fingers laid bare. 
—‘‘Well, of all things!’’ A set of six 
eggs of the Pied-billed Grebe. Stchsets are 
not found in every nest. And, so while 
two trim gloved hands held the boat in 
place, and the boy, who might have been 
seen, ten minutes later, with one Night- 
Heron’s egg in each fat fist, the contents of 
two more trickling down the front of his 
shirt, while I say, the boy looked on ap- 
