NEST-HUNTING. 99 



What a contrast is the open-air hammock of the 

 Baltimore oriole, swinging from the flexible branches 

 of a buttonwood tree a little farther up the stream ! 

 How softly the chirping brood within is rocked by 

 the breezes that sweep down from the slopes, laden 

 with the odor of clover blossoms ! Somewhere near 

 there must be a warbling vireo's nest, for one of 

 these birds is singing in the trees ; but my eyes are 

 not sharp enough to descry its pensile domicile. 



On my way home, on the top of a hill, I step 

 casually up to a small thorn-bush, whose branches 

 and leaves are thickly matted together, and, as I 

 push the foliage aside, there is a flutter of wings, 

 followed by a rapid chirping, arid a little bird flits 

 away, pretending to be seriously wounded. It is a 

 bush-sparrow. Cosily placed beneath the leafy roof 

 among the thick boughs is the procreant cradle. 

 What could be more dainty ! A little nest, woven 

 of fine grass-fibres, deftly lined with hair, and con- 

 taining four speckled eggs, real gems. How " beau- 

 tiful for situation " is this tiny cottage on the hill ! 

 Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy 

 verandas, look down into the green valleys, and 

 compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. 

 One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the 

 happy couple. 



On returning, one day, from an ornithological 

 jaunt, I met my friend, the young farmer, who 

 knows something about my furor for the birds. 

 There was a knowing smile on his sunburned face. 

 " I know where there 's a killdeer's nest," he said ; 



