THE BROWN THRASHER 43 



come and look for his treasures in his vicinity. B ut 

 you will not find them if you go. The nest is some- 

 where on the outer circle of his song ; he is never 

 so imprudent as to take up his stand very near it. 

 The artists who draw those cozy Uttle pictures of 

 a brooding mother bird, with the male perched but 

 a yard away in full song, do not copy from na- 

 ture. The thrasher's nest I found was thirty or 

 forty rods from the point where the male was 

 , wont to indulge in his brilliant recitative. It was 

 in an open field under a low ground-juniper. My 

 dog disturbed the sitting bird as I was passing 

 near. The nest could be seen only by lifting up 

 and parting away the branches. All the arts of 

 concealment had been carefully studied. It was 

 the last place you would think of looking in, and, 

 if you did look, nothing was visible but the dense 

 green circle of the low-spreading juniper. When 

 you approached, the bird would keep her place 

 till you had begun to stir the branches, when 

 she would start out, and, just skimming the 

 ground, make a bright brown line to the near 

 fence and bushes. I confidently expected that 

 this nest would escape molestation, but it did not. 

 Its discovery by myself and dog probably opened 

 the door for ill luck, as one day, not long after- 

 ward, when I peeped in upon it, it was empty. The 

 proud song of the male had ceased from his ac- 



