NEST-HUNTING. lOf 



flakes which are piled up in them in downy mounds, 

 and thus attract the attention of the observer. I 

 have often felt inclined to heap upon myself the 

 most caustic epithets for having passed again and 

 again, during the breeding-season, so near the nest 

 of an interesting bird without knowing of its exist- 

 ence until winter's frosts had stripped the coppice 

 of its leaves, and have resolved as often that the 

 next season shall not find me napping. 



In the marsh which is one of my favorite trudging- 

 grounds, I made a quaint discovery some winters 

 ago, which has raised more than one query in my 

 mind. One day, after a snowfall, I found many 

 deserted nests in the thickets. Brushing the snow 

 out of them revealed, in the bottom of each basket, 

 a small pile of the seeds and broken shells of wild- 

 rose and thorn berries. Why had the birds put 

 them there — if it was the birds? Perhaps the 

 winter birds, when they arrived in the autumn, 

 found these old nests good storehouses in which to 

 lay by their winter supplies. I have never seen the 

 birds feeding on them, but, as spring approached, 

 the berry seeds had nearly all disappeared. 



Come with me, for -I know a pleasant, half-clois- 

 tered field of clover which is the habitat of a number 

 of charming little birds. Just where it is shall 

 remain one of my semi-sylvan secrets, for one must 

 not betray all the confidences of one's feathered 

 intimates. The field cuts a right angle in a wood- 

 land, by which it is, therefore, bounded on the east 

 and north, while toward the west and south the 



