THE SUMMIT OF THE YEARS 



flew toward the elm with it trailing in the air be- 

 hind her. I could but smile at her thrift. The sec- 

 ond nest she completed and occupied and doubtless 

 found her pendent-nest instinct fully satisfied by 

 the high swaying elm branch. 



One of our prettiest nest-builders is the junco or 

 snowbird; in fact, it builds the prettiest nest to be 

 found upon the ground, I think — more massive 

 and finely moulded and finished than that of the 

 song sparrow. I find it only in the Catskills, or 

 on their borders, often in a mossy bank by the 

 roadside, in the woods, or on their threshold. With 

 what delicate and consummate art it is insinu- 

 ated into the wild scene, like some shy thing that 

 grew there, visible, yet hidden by its perfect fitness 

 and harmony with its surroundings. The mother 

 bird darts out but a few yards from you as you drive 

 or walk along, but your eye is baffled for some 

 moments before you have her secret. Such a keen, 

 feather-edged, not to say spiteful little body, with 

 the emphasis of those two pairs of white quills in 

 her tail given to every movement, and yet, a less 

 crabbed, less hasty nest, softer and more suggestive 

 of shy sylvan ways, than is hers, would be hard to 

 find. 



One day I was walking along the grassy borders 



of a beech and maple wood with a friend when, as 



we came to a little low mound of moss and grass, 



scarcely a foot high, I said, "This is just the spot 



272 



