Notes from Field and Study 



245 



such a position, the Sparrow is helpless. 

 The Wren takes every opportunity to 

 come close and sink his sharp beak into 

 the foe's head and back. Nine out of ten 

 times, the smaller bird is the victor. I 

 have seen a Sparrow fall more than 

 eighteen inches in the air after having 

 been struck by an angry Wren. 



We owe the Wrens a debt of gratitude 

 not only because of their fighting ability 

 but also because of their feeding habits. 

 They eat countless numbers of insects 

 that destroy plants and bushes. Potato 

 bugs, lice and aphides are their just prey. 



Would you like the Wrens to nest near 

 your home? A closed cigar-box with a 

 hole in one end no larger than a quarter 

 makes them an ideal house. Place it from 

 six to ten feet above the ground, and let 

 it have a southern or western exposure 

 near some trees or bushes. The birds will 

 do the rest. They are happy little friends 

 and bear enmity to no man. — Raymond 

 B. Beckwith, Olivet, Mich. 



Moving a Robin's Nest 



In May, 1907, a pair of Robins built 

 their nest in a honeysuckle vine which 

 effectively shaded one end of our front 

 porch. The eggs were laid, hatched, and 

 by June 7 there were three young birds, 

 fully feathered, but yet too young to 

 leave the nest. 



Unfortunately for the peace of the 

 Robins' home, our house was being painted 

 and, as the porch was the next in line to 

 be refinished, the honeysuckle had to 

 come down. But what would become of 

 the Robins' nest and the little Robins? 

 My father and I were at an utter loss. 

 Finally we hit upon the plan of taking the 

 nest and its contents bodily and trans- 

 porting it to a cigar-box, nailed in a maple 

 tree only eight or ten feet from the original 

 site. 



A ladder was put up and, having 

 climbed up, I started to cut the nest loose 

 from the supporting twigs. In a moment 

 a young Robin, unable to withstand his 

 fear of me, flew or rather half fell to the 

 ground. The parents, who had been flying 



about uneasily and calling anxiously, 

 now dashed to the spot and, perching but 

 a few feet away, berated me unmercifully. 



The other two young birds crouched 

 down in the nest, too frightened to move. 



After several minutes' work, the nest 

 was cut loose and transported to its new 

 position, and the bold young one re- 

 placed. 



It really seemed as though we had 

 accomplished our end, and that our task 

 was finished. But no! Without any 

 warning, another, or maybe the same little 

 rascal, flopped out again. Resignedly we 

 set to work to replace the runaway with- 

 out frightening his brothers. But the old 

 Robins wanted none of our help. They 

 apparently thought that already we had 

 done enough mischief. Swooping down 

 about our heads and calling, half crazy 

 with rage and grief, they made such a 

 commotion and stir that in no time there 

 were at least eight other Robins busily 

 engaged in calling us all manner of harsh 

 and uncomplimentary names. 



After a short chase the bird was cap- 

 tured, and once more the three young 

 Robins were united. Fearful lest another 

 might decide to leave home, we hurried 

 away. It was a long time before the Robins, 

 young and old, became reconciled to the 

 new location of their home. But they 

 finally quieted down and went about their 

 business as before. — Edward J. F. Marx, 

 Easton, Pa. 



The Barn Owls' Scrap-pile 



I have always been impressed by the 

 accounts given of the wonderful appetite 

 of the Barn Owl for the smaller rodents, 

 but never fully realized what it meant 

 until I chanced to stop under a tree in a 

 cavity of which a family of these birds 

 had their home. 



It was a large, isolated oak, and stood 

 on the side of a hill, sloping to the creek, 

 and overlooking a large expanse of 

 swampy meadow land, and low pastures — 

 the natural home of myriads of meadow- 

 mice. 



Here the birds had evidently secured a 

 plentiful supply of food, for under the tree 



