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JOURNAL OP MAINE ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 



was being fooled and that when he 

 really started for home in dead earn- 

 est it was a good half mile fly across 

 some dense swamp or tangle where a 

 fellow couldn't go and retain his self 

 respect. 



Day after day it was the same ex- 

 perience, until one morning, late in 

 the season, I accidentally discovered 

 the old bird going to his nest with 

 food in his bill, and of course I fol- 

 lowed. All was plain now. I had lo- 

 cated the home site at last. This fact 

 apparently didn't disturb him in the 

 least. He knew I didn't care a rap 

 for chickens and I was welcome to 

 look all I liked. But it was a great 

 mistake on his part. He had given 

 me a tip and I proposed to profit by 

 it, for knowledge in this case was 

 power. I beheld for the first time the 

 long-looked for nest and made a care- 

 ful mental note of its location and 

 general surroundings. 



You have seen one perhaps, a mossy 

 saucer placed near the end of a spruce 

 limb, some 20 feet up, just about im- 

 possible to see from beneath, for the 

 fur fingers are thick together. The 

 nest was, as I expected, filled with 

 young chicks a few days out of the 

 shell, of no use in themselves, but 

 valuable as data. Half the victory 

 was at last won The building site 

 was made known and I said to myself 

 another season is coming and if you 

 feed your young the first of July 

 you must have fresh eggs the middle 

 of June. "All things come to him 

 that waits" and keeps his eyes open. 



The scene changes. It is Bunker 

 Hill day, June 17, 1896. With a young 

 companion, a chip (ornithlogically) of 

 the old block, who can call the tune 

 on a bird note as easy as he can re- 

 peat the multiplication table. I am 

 hunting that same old swamp for that 

 same old "will-o'-the-wisp." 



The air is odorous with the sweet 

 fragrance of conifers and redolent 



with mosquitoes — regular "gallinip- 

 pers." The temperature is anywhere 

 from 90 to 100. It feels like 150, and 

 although within two hundred yards of 

 the open sea, we might as well have 

 been two hundred miles away for all 

 the good we derived from its proxim- 

 ity. 



We had about given up locating Mr. 

 Borealis for the day and were hurry- 

 ing through the thick brush and 

 small growth toward the cliffs that 

 overhang the sea, caring little else 

 than for a breath of fresh air, when 

 a peculiar snapping sound over our 

 heads suddenly attracted our atientioii 

 and caused us to pause a moment; 

 and looking up a pair of Olive-Sided 

 Flycatchers were wheeling and dart- 

 ing about just above us, angry and 

 defiant. Surely we were on a hot trail 

 and when we least expected it. 



A close examination of the likely 

 trees was quickly made and a rather 

 small spruce with lower limbs quite 

 well up for its size, looked decidedly 

 suspicious. Close to the end of a limb 

 about the third from the lowest and 

 about 20 feet up, could be discerned 

 from beneath a thickened place like as 

 if some refuse had accidentally lodged 

 upon it, and a climb for examination 

 was begun. The birds all this time 

 had been perched upon neighboring 

 tree tops, calling to each other in ex- 

 cited tones, but keeping reasonably 

 quiet: but now all was changed, and 

 from quiet attentive observers, both 

 quickly changed to miniature furies 

 and angry antagonists, flying about 

 close to our heads, darting at us and 

 snapping their bills like birds of prey. 

 A climb of some 20 feet and the nest 

 was disclosed to view, and what a 

 sight! 



It has been my good fortune to see 

 many beautiful things in the way of 

 nests and eggs, but never before in 

 all my experience had such a charm- 



