THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 7/ 



with purple and lilac," etc. Who has questioned 

 nature closely enough to know how and why she 

 has pictured them so.' From what mysterious 

 vesicle has she mixed her colors, or in what port- 

 folio does the magic pencil lie .' 



As I sit here, where the sunlight scarcely breaks 

 in through the thick evergreens, listening to the 

 various sounds, and looking at the little clusters 

 of red and yellow toad-stools that have sprung up 

 as if by magic through the mosses, and the pretty 

 scalloped water pennywort leaves, some of which 

 are as white as snow, but quite fresh, and grow- 

 ing like the green ones, my eye chances to fall 

 on a bird, perched on a .low, small limb near a 

 tall, decayed birch stump, in which a pair of tit- 

 mice or chickadees had chiseled out a home. The 

 door is quite conspicuous and appears like a 

 round, black spot painted on the white, gleaming 

 background. It is evident that a family of young 

 birds are within, for the mother, with a fat span- 

 ner in her beak, now flits down through the leaves 

 and eyes me suspiciously. It is interesting to 

 watch all her ways, her bright, strategic plans, and 

 her little games of deception in trying to enter 

 her door-way without being seen. Finding me 

 unwilling to stir from my post of observation, she 

 flies away, making a wide circuit among the thick 

 branches, and approaches the nest from another 

 direction. There is a struggle in her plump 



