138 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 
of possibilities within ; life, music and flight, only wait- 
ing a little more warmth from the mother’s breast. 
There is such an unexplainable charm about a nest of 
egos. I confess that I never see a nest of eggs of one of 
our domestic fowls without a thrill of pleasure. Thomas 
W. Higginson, in his incomparable “ Out Door Papers,” 
says: “I think that if required on pain of death to 
name instantly the most perfect thing in the universe, 
I should risk my fate on a bird’s egg. There is, first, its 
exquisite fragility, strong only by the mathematical 
precision of that form so delicately moulded. Then its 
range of tints so varied, so subdued, so beautiful, 
whether of pure white, like the martin’s, or pure green ; 
like the robin’s, or dotted and mottled into the loveliest 
of browns; like the red thrush’s, or aqua marine with 
stains of moss agate; like the chipping sparrow’s, or 
blotched with long weird ink marks on a pale ground; 
like the oriole’s, as if it bore inscribed some magic clew 
to the bird’s darting flight and pensile nest. Above all, 
the associations of this little wonder of winged splendor 
and celestial melody, coiled in mystery within these 
tiny walls; it will be as if a pearl opened and an angel 
sang.” 
A house wren arrived here only a day or two ago, 
and has already explored the cavity of a dry limb in 
which he and his mate had a nest last year. The phebe 
birds have built on a beam under the shed, and the 
three white eggs are nearly ready to hatch. Both birds 
assist in incubation. Last summer a pair of humming 
birds built a nest in a large tree nearest the house. It 
