JOURNAL OF MAINE ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 



THE NEST AND EGGS OP THE 

 OLIVE-SIDED FLYCATCHER. 



(Contopus borealis.) 



How many of the United Ornithol- 

 ogists of Maine have ever discovered 

 the nest of the Olive-Sided Flycatch- 

 er (Contopus borealis) Swainson? 

 Fortunate indeed is he or she who 

 can answer "aye." For this pugna- 

 cious bully, this swaggering, over- 

 bearing fighter of a fighting family, is 

 far from common during the breeding 

 season anywhere in our State, and 

 when he does condescend to tarry and 

 rear a family, is exceedingly clever 

 in locating the nursery. 



The writer has spent many years 

 studying or attempting to study the 

 wonders and mysteries of Old Dame 

 Nature as they are unfolded to us in 

 our glorious Maine woods, the beau- 

 ties and treasures of bird life receiv- 

 ing always the lion's share of thought, 

 time and effort; and although many a 

 choice "find" has been his good for- 

 tune, still he can count upon one fin- 

 ger of one hand the number of nests 

 with eggs of this king of the flycatch- 

 ers that he has been able to discover, 

 And this is how it all came about 

 For several years past I have spent 

 a portion of the nesting season close 

 to the shore of Old Ocean at Booth- 

 bay Harbor, and have among • the 

 coniferae, many nice things from an 

 ornithologist's standpoint were picked 

 up from year to year. The one par- 

 ticular nest, however, always sought. 

 but never found, was the home of 

 that pugnacious flycatcher C. borealis. 

 The birds themselves were always in 

 evidence. From the piazza of my cot- 

 tage its sharp and piercing cry of 

 o-wheo, o-wheo, uttered methodically 

 could be heard every morning and af- 

 ternoon through perched on the tip 

 of some blasted tree top a quarter of 

 a mile away. 



It was the breeding season. His 

 home must be near and it must be 

 found. 



The saying that hope springs eter- 

 nal in the human breast is particular- 

 ly true of the ornithologist, and I rea- 

 soned that with persistent work it 

 was only a matter of time when the 

 spotted treasures he was so carefully 

 concealing should b^ mine by right of 

 discovery. 



But season after season passed 

 without result. Every June would 

 find him upon his elevated perches 

 and uttering 'his plaintive call note, 

 while I was pretty sure to be nearby, 

 watching and hunting for his home. 

 Hour after hour I would patiently do 

 this, watching and waiting for some 

 sign or indication (which, however, 

 never came) that mightlead me to his 

 nesting place; but his sallies forth 

 after venturesome lepidoptera were al« 

 most without number, his appetite for 

 insect life being apparently insatiable, 

 and his contentment when he was 

 more than satisfied with his lot, even if 

 I was not with mine, and had no idea 

 of going home. He was doubtless 

 fully aware that everything was all 

 right at that end of the route, for his 

 call note would be answered by his 

 mate from some far-off spruce. 



My, but it was tough sometimes. 

 What with the heat in the thick, 

 swampy woods, where the sun could 

 penetrate, but the sea breeze never, 

 tormented by myriads of mosquitoes, 

 more thirsty for gore than the old pi- 

 rates of the Spanish Main, the waiting 

 and sweltering under such circum- 

 stances was almost unbearable. 



Generally, like a hard conundrum, I 

 gave it up after a while. If I perse 

 vered and stuck it out, perchance he 

 would allow me the privilege of fol- 

 lowing him to another tree, possibly 

 two, a long distance away, over a not 

 altogether attractive country for a 

 pedestrian, only to discover at last I 



