OLD FRIENDS IN NEW PLACES 



other vacant form — the perfection of art without 

 any art. When the rabbit builds her nest and has 

 her young she does not seek out a dense cover, but 

 comes right out into the clear open spaces where you 

 would never think of looking. She excavates a little 

 cradle in the ground, gathers some dry grass, weaves 

 a little blanket of dry grass and fur from her own 

 body, just large enough to cover it, and her secret 

 is well kept — most hidden when hidden the least. 

 Quail and grouse know something of the same art, 

 and never make their nests in a thick tangle. I 

 have seen a quail's nest with twenty eggs in it on 

 the edge of a public highway. The brooding bird 

 allowed me almost to touch her with my hand be- 

 fore she flew away. 



If every bushy and weedy spring run in Georgia 

 embracing not more than an acre or two of ground 

 has two dozen sparrows, to say nothing of a pair or 

 two of cardinals, Carolina wrens, and mockingbirds, 

 one can get some idea of what a vast number of birds 

 such a large State — over three hundred miles long 

 and two hundred miles wide — holds. With two 

 pairs of birds to the acre, a fair estimate, it would 

 count up to over seventy millions. The farm of 

 about one hundred and thirty acres upon which I 

 passed February and March probably held several 

 dozen sparrows and as many juncoes, a score or two 

 blue jays, and two or three dozen meadowlarks, a 

 pair each of cardinals, Carolina wrens, and brown 

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