300 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



it is inevitable that thej^ will be trampled by herds 

 of cattle, overturned with the plow, torn by 

 hay rakes or reapers. Often they are on bridges 

 and fences, where they are picked to pieces by the 

 first passing boy. They are in bushes in plain 

 sight of roads and pathways, when if placed a 

 few yards farther back, they would be effectually 

 concealed. Birds build in clearings, where the trees 

 are falling fast, and it would seem that any degree 

 of foresight would teach them that their tree would 

 go next. Once, in a clearing, a pair of doves built 

 a nest in a brush heap and the hen deposited her 

 eggs, between the time the cuttings were stacked 

 and the workers were ready to apply the torch. 

 Luckily, that nest was on our land and I could 

 order the workers to leave the heap and give it 

 all possible protection, or that nest would have been 

 burned three days after it was built. A pair of 

 wrens built in a sprinkling can that was hung in 

 a tree to drain, and a pair of robins on the croGS 

 beam of a hay rake left standing in an open field. 

 I previously described the nest built on a freight 

 car. Last summer, I was called to the backyard 

 of a neighbour to take a picture of a nest of a wren, 

 built in the hip pocket of a pair of trousers hung 

 on the line. The garment was left until the wrens 

 had finished with it. 



On our dock at the Cabin, north, during the sum- 

 mer of 1918, I ran my hand into a bait can left 

 standing a few hours — one of the small tin cans four 



