THE RAVEN’S NEST 75 
of rhododendron. In the meantime the snow had 
changed to a lashing rain, probably the coldest that 
has ever fallen on the North American continent. 
Ploughing through slush, the black rhododendron 
stems twisted around us like wet rubber, and the 
hollow green leaves funneled ice-water down our 
backs and into our ears. Breaking through the last 
of the thickets, we at length reached a little brook 
which ran along the foot of the cliff. A hundred feet 
above, out from the middle of the cliff stretched a 
long tongue of rock. Over this the cliff arched like 
a roof, with a space between which widened toward 
the tip of the tongue. In a niche above this cleft a 
dark mass showed dimly through the rain. 
“The nest!’ muttered the Collector hoarsely, 
pouring a pint or so of rain-water down my neck 
from his hat-brim as he bent toward me. I stared 
with all my eyes, at last one of the chosen few to see 
the nest of a Pennsylvania raven. It was made of 
large sticks. The fresh broken ends and the droppings 
on the cliff-side showed that it was a recent one. 
There were no signs of either of the birds. We 
solemnly removed our coats and sweaters and pre- 
pared for the worst. To me the cliff looked much 
like the Matterhorn, only slipperier. The Collector, 
however, was most reassuring. He told me that the 
going looked worse than it really was, and that, 
anyway, if I did fall, death would be so nearly in- 
stantaneous as to involve little if any suffering. 
Thus encouraged, I followed him gruntingly up a 
path which had evidently been made by a chamois 
