The Lay of the Band 
Here is a pretty story. But who will tell it to me? 
What followed is a pretty story, too, had I a 
lover’s pen with which to write it, — the story of his 
love, of their love, and of her love especially, which 
was last and best. 
For several days after she came the weather con- 
tinued raw and wet, so that nest-building was greatly 
delayed. The scar of an old, last year’s nest still 
showed on a stringer, and I wondered if they had 
decided on this or some other site for the new nest. 
They had not made up their minds, for when they 
did start it was to make three beginnings, 
Then I offered a suggestion. Out of a bit of stick, 
branching at right angles, I made a little bracket 
and tacked it up on one of the stringers, down near 
the lower end of the roof. It appealed to the birds 
at once, and from that moment the building went 
steadily on. 
Saddled upon this bracket, as well as mortared to 
the stringer, the nest, when finished, was as safe 
as a castle. And how perfect a thing! Few nests, 
indeed, combine the solidity, the softness, and the 
exquisite curve of phoebe’s. 
In placing the bracket, I had carelessly nailed it 
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