BIRD’S-NESTING 109 
of twigs on which was sitting a strange bird. Its 
long sharp beak pointed straight skyward. Its back 
was a combination of shades of soft reddish-l:rowns, 
while its breast was reddish-brown streaked with 
white. The most curious things about it were its 
eyes. They were almost all pupil, with a bright 
golden ring around the extreme edge, and stared 
at us unwinkingly like a great snake. Although we 
came close up, the bird absolutely refused to leave 
her nest, and stabbed viciously at a stick which I 
poked out toward her. Finally, not daring to trust 
my hand within reach of that stabbing yellow beak, 
I lifted her up bodily with the long stick, enough to 
show five whitish-blue eggs rounded at each end. 
It was the rare nest and eggs of the least bittern, a 
bird a little over a foot long, which has a strange 
habit of clutching with its claws the stalks of reeds 
and walking up them like a monkey. As we left, 
amid the clicking notes of the cricket-frogs and 
the boom of the bull-frogs we heard a very low 
“Cluck, cluck, cluck.”” It was the least bittern 
singing the only song she knew, in celebration of the 
fact that she still had her eggs safe. 
The Architect and myself decided to travel once 
again, later in the season, to the mountain, in the 
hope that we might make a better nesting record. 
We reached the cabin on June 17th, and again found 
ourselves back in spring. The peepers were still 
calling, and there were wild lilies-of-the-valley in the 
woods, and pink rose-hearted twin-flowers, with 
their scent of heliotrope. Everywhere grew the 
