I02 IN BIRD LAND. 



undulating country stretches away like a billowy sea 

 of green. The woods themselves, on the sides 

 adjacent to the field, are hemmed and fringed with 

 a thick growth of saplings, bushes, and brambles, 

 where the feathered husbands sit and hymn their 

 joy by the hour to their little mates hugging their 

 nests in the clover and the copse. It is a quiet spot, 

 — one of Nature's nunneries. Human dwellings may 

 be seen in the distance ; but it is seldom that any 

 one, save a mooning rambler like myself, goes there 

 to disturb the peace of the feathered tenants. 



Here, one summer a few years ago, a pair of 

 those wary birds the yellow-breasted chats built a 

 nest, which they placed snugly in the blackberry 

 bushes that bordered and partly hid the rail-fence. 

 I kept close reconnoissance on this little home- 

 stead until the nascent inmates were about half- 

 fledged, when, to my dismay, every one of them 

 was kidnapped by some despicable nest-robber. 

 My own sorrow was equalled only by the inexpres- 

 sible anguish of the bereaved parents. To add to 

 my troubles, a nestful of yoimg indigo-birds came 

 to grief in the same way. There must be, it seems, 

 a system of brigandage in every realm, be it human 

 or faunal. 



A pair of bush-sparrows, however, were more for- 

 tunate in their brood-rearing. One day, while 

 standing near the fence, I noticed a bush-sparrow, 

 bearing an insect in her bill, dart down into the 

 clover, a short distance over in the field. I walked 

 to the spot, when she flew up with an uneasy chirp, 



