EARNING A TITLE 7 



was a season that one or more nests did not fall 

 into the fireplace, frequently carrying young birds 

 almost ready for flight with them. They were 

 very seldom killed in the fall, but they swept down 

 soot, and flopped around in the ashes to the vexa- 

 tion of Mother's housewifely soul. The old birds 

 often fell with the nests or followed down the 

 chimney and escaped into the room; so they, too, 

 decorated the ceiling with their blood, if they fell 

 when we chanced to be away from home and they 

 were not released immediately. Often, if the nest 

 were not completely shattered, I gathered up the 

 pieces, wired them back into shape to the best of 

 my ability, climbed from an upstairs window to 

 the roof of the back part of the house, which was 

 only one story, and from there to the roof of the 

 second story. By using pieces of shingle and bits 

 of wire, I replaced the nests inside the chimney, 

 then put the little birds back into them. It was 

 a frequent prophecy with the family that I should 

 break my neck in this undertaking. 



My experience with birds began as soon as I 

 could walk, at my home, Hopewell Farm, in Wa- 

 bash County, Indiana. As I recall our farm at 

 that time, it was of unusual beauty, a perfect in- 

 land location for birds. The public highway ran 

 north and south through the middle of the land. 

 On the west of the road were a number of culti- 

 vated fields and one large tract of native timber. 

 On the east of the road lay the residence, sur- 



