THE RAVEN’S NEST 81 
and slept and slept and slept. Long after I have for- 
gotten the difference between a tort and a contract, 
and whether A. Edward Newton or Marie Corelli 
wrote the “Amenities,” that dinner and that sleep 
will stand out in my memory. 
The next morning we started off again in a driving 
snowstorm, to look at another nest some ten miles 
farther on. The first bird we met was a prairie 
horned lark flying over the valley, with its curious 
tossing, mounting flight, like a bunch of thistle-down. 
It differs from the more common horned, or shore, 
lark by having a white instead of a yellow throat and 
eye-line; and it nests in the mountain meadows in 
upper Pennsylvania, while its larger brother breeds in 
the far north. 
Noon found us at a deer camp. Through the un- 
curtained windows we could see the mounted body of 
a golden eagle, which, after stalking and destroying 
one by one a whole flock of wild turkeys, had come 
to an ignoble end while gorged on the carcass of a 
dead deer. The man who captured it by throwing his 
coat over its head thought at first that it was a turkey 
buzzard, which southern bird, curiously enough, 
finds its way through the valleys up into these north- 
ern mountains. In fact, the Collector once found a 
buzzard’s nest just across a ravine from the nest of 
a raven. Beyond the camp, on the other side of a 
rushing torrent, we found another raven’s nest sway- 
ing in the gale, in the very top of a slender forty-foot 
white pine, the only raven’s nest the Collector had 
ever found in a tree. It was deserted, and we reached 
