THE RAVEN’S NEST 77 
tions, I thrust my left arm up as far as I could, and 
found a hand-hold on the slippery rock. After getting 
my breath, I managed to wriggle up through the 
crevice and lay safe on the top of the tongue. The 
niche above was not large enough for us both, so 
the Collector came down while I took his place. 
I was lashed by a freezing rain, my numb hands were 
cut and bleeding, and there were ten weary miles 
still ahead. Yet that moment was worth all that it 
cost. There is an indescribable fascination and 
triumph in sharing a secret with the wild-folk, which 
can be understood only by the initiate. The living 
naturalists who had looked into the home of the 
Northern raven in Pennsylvania could be counted on 
the thumb and first three fingers of one hand. At 
last the little finger belonged to me. 
The deep cup of the nest was about one foot in 
diameter and over a yard across on the outside. 
It was firmly anchored on the shelf of rock, the 
structure being built into the crevices and made 
entirely of dead oak branches, some of them fully 
three quarters of an inch in diameter. It looked from 
a distance like an enormous crow’s nest. The cup 
itself was some six inches deep, and lined with red 
and white deer-hair and some long black hairs which 
were probably those of a skunk. Inside, it had a 
little damp green moss; while the rim was made of 
green birch twigs bruised and hackled by the beaks 
of the builders. On this day, March 9, 1918, there 
were no eggs, although in a previous year the Collec- 
tor had found two as early as February 25, when 
