THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 69 



air of a bird, I imagined, that was beginning to 

 think there was something wrong. 



What were her feelings when her suspicions 

 became fully aroused.' Anger and disajDpoint- 

 ment .' Or was she a little stoic, submitting 

 without a sorrowful or querulous "chip" to the 

 inevitable .■' 



The circumstances connected with the final 

 misfortune of this ill-fated nest-hold are curious. 

 Nature, after all, appears to have been in league 

 with the indolent, though by no means shiftless, 

 mother cow-bird, and encouraged her in her art- 

 ful, knavish habits. Her egg, laid in this nest, 

 evidently required a shorter period of incuba- 

 tion, and when it was hatched, the poor deluded 

 mother, who was no doubt surprised to find a 

 nestling stirring beneath her so soon, immediately 

 began to feed it, thus leaving her own eggs, now 

 in a critical condition, to spoil. The embryos 

 within the legitimate eggs, now deserted and 

 chilled, were scarcely more than half grown, and 

 had become decayed. 



Here in the open upland woods I saunter in 

 little by-paths to admire the zigzag course of a 

 tiny moth whose wings are painted with the hue 

 of the hepatica, and the quick, jerky motion of 

 that large black and yellow butterfly — Papilio 

 Tumiis — that wanders everywhere as if in search 

 of something it never finds. The remarkable 



