WOOD NOTES AND NEST HUNTING. Id 



noon-time, when the sun's rays are pouring down 

 on the mosses, one imagines it is not so sprightly 

 as in the morning. There appears to be a dragging 

 of the notes, as though the little songster was 

 worn out with the heat, and although he may be 

 very near you in shade, the first syllables seem to 

 come from a distance, showing his great powers 

 of ventriloquism, gradually sounding nearer and 

 louder, until he reaches the climax. This is his 

 commonplace humming after all, for Mr. Board- 

 man, a close observer of the birds, says he has 

 another song at times, so rare and beautiful that 

 but few know it as from that bird. 



His nest is not far from here, for when I happen 

 in this vicinity his song is sure to be heard. He 

 likes just such a place as this — shaded slopes near 

 a stream. As you walk along you see hundreds 

 of depressions, little hollows under the roots, 

 crevices in the ledges, and hide-away places gen- 

 erally in which you would choose to locate a nest, 

 but thus far it has escaped my search. How 

 shrewd these birds are in concealing their homes, 

 not only from the sight of man, but often, as they 

 must, from the sharper cow bunting, whose special 

 instinct it is to intrude upon them, and from the 

 numerous greedy prowlers that go nosing round. 



