62 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



covered ledges that form the steep acclivity of 

 the forest floor, I pause awhile to listen to the 

 pathetic piping of the veery, the drowsy song of 

 the black-throated green warbler that has lodged 

 his nest somewhere in these dim arches ; or to 

 watch the gray squirrels as they scamper from 

 tree to tree and disturb the solemn service of the 

 temple with strange, unorderly barkings. 



Here on a slope, in a narrow niche of ledge 

 where a drift of dead leaves has blown in, I dis- 

 cover by mere accident the nest of the black-and- 

 white creeping warbler. The bird is on and does 

 not stir, though I stand within three feet of her. 

 How still she is, and what bravery and hardihood 

 shines out of her full black eye ! She does not 

 even wink, and in breathing I can not see a 

 feather move. She might be mistaken for the 

 various lights and shades on the ground, or a bit 

 of gray ledge projecting from the leaves. 



Nature has been wise and far-seeing in giving 

 to ground-nesting birds the colors which nearly 

 simulate their surroundings, and the instinct of 

 remaining quiet on their nests when danger is 

 near. If the mother birds fluttered off at the 

 approach of every footstep or wing shadow, how 

 quickly their homes would be discovered by the 

 numerous enemies that are lurking above and 

 below for a stray dish of omelette, or a mess of 

 well-picked, fresh young fowl ! At last, when 



