82 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



It was rare good fortune that directed me one 

 day to visit the Arboretum, and to be shown a 

 quail's nest which the mowers had recently dis- 

 covered by accident in the border of the meadow. 

 The deep cavity was most daintily and ingeniously 

 lodged in an oblique or sloping direction amidst 

 the twisting, snaggy roots of an old stump, over- 

 grown with golden rod and steeple bush. It 

 seemed as if the end of a smoothly-shaven, round- 

 topped post, six or seven inches in diameter, had 

 been pressed into a mass of dry grasses and weed 

 stalks and then carefully removed after the stems 

 and culms had been well moulded into the proper 

 shape. How neatly the bird had packed her lit- 

 tle store-house with a "baker's dozen" of clear, 

 white, bright eggs ! It must indeed have seemed 

 a precious lot to her. This remarkable produc- 

 tiveness is natural with her, as with all of the 

 scratchers. As soon as the young are free from 

 their prison shells, they can run about and pick 

 up many an insect and seed tidbit which their 

 mothers know nothing about ; so they can afford 

 to have a larger brood than the smaller birds 

 whose nestlings lie helpless for many days in 

 their cradles, and must depend on their parents to 

 supply them with whatever food they have. 



The quail is like the barn fowl that wanders 

 away and steals her nest. Now that is found, she 

 silently submits, and does not appear at all anxious 



