never quite touched that altitude again, for I 

 was a boy then. 



Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the 

 abyss of mortal terror than followed with my 

 turning to descend. I looked down into empty 

 air. Feet foremost I backed over the rim, clutch- 

 ing the loose sticks and feeling for a foothold. 

 They snapped with the least pressure ; slipped 

 and fell if I pushed them, or stuck out into my 

 clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my hands 

 pulled out, my feet broke through under me, 

 and for an instant I hung at the side of the nest 

 in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my 

 blouse as I slipped. 



There is a special Providence busy with the 

 boy. 



This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than 

 a nest ; it was a castle in very truth, in the shel- 

 tering crevices of whose uneven walls a small 

 community of purple grackles lived. "Wedged 

 in among the protruding sticks was nest above 

 nest, plastering the great pile over, making it 

 almost grassy with their loose flying ends. I 

 remember that I counted more than twenty of 

 these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the 

 [68] 



