The Fox Sparrows 



surrenders "at discretion," and begins to ask eager questions of his 

 dainty captor. 



As might be expected, the home life of this Quaker poet is idyllic. 

 In a certain aspen grove of the North a nest was located early in June; 

 and this, rather unusually, had been placed upon the ground instead of 

 being concealed in a bush. The nest was marked by its proximity to the 

 base of a small tree, but it stood so high, with overflowing skirts, and 

 without pretense of concealment, that it was plainly visible, with all 

 its contents, two rods away. 



The female was brooding, but upon our approach she slipped quietly 

 off and left her three callow young to the tender mercies of the bird-man 

 and his big glass eye, set at four feet, while she began searching for food 

 upon the ground a yard or two away. 



The male bird appeared once upon a bush some twenty feet away, 

 making no hostile demonstration but beaming, rather, a hearty con- 

 fidence, as who should say, "Well, I see you are getting along nicely at 

 home; that's right, enjoy yourselves, and I'll finish up this bit of hoeing 

 before supper." 



The mother bird, meanwhile, was uttering no complaint of the 

 strange presence, preferring instead to glean food industriously from 

 under the carpet of green leaves. Soon she returned, hopping up daintily. 

 Standing upon the elevated brim of her nest she carefully surveyed her 

 brood without proffer of food, as though merely to assure herself of 

 their welfare. I "snapped" and she retreated, not hastily, as though 

 frightened, but quietly as matter of reasonable prudence. Again and 

 again, during the hour I had her under fire, she returned to her brood. 

 Each time she retired before the mild roar of the curtain shutter, never 

 hastily or nervously, but deliberately and demurely. Thrice she fed her 

 brood, thrusting her beak, which bore no external signs of food, deep 

 down into the upturned gullets of the three children. Thrice she at- 

 tempted to brood her babes, and very handsome and very motherly she 

 looked, with fluffed feathers and mildly inquisitive eye; but the necessary 

 movement following an exposure sent her away for a season. 



When absent, she neither moped nor scolded, but discreetly set 

 about scratching for food, always within a range of ten or fifteen feet of 

 the nest. At such times she would look up trustfully and unabashed. 

 Upon the return she never flew, and there was nothing to advise the 

 waiting camerist of her approach, save the rustle of leaves as she came 

 hop, hopping, until she stood upon the familiar brim. 



The opportunities for picture-making were simply unlimited, save 

 for the weakness of the leaf-diluted light. Seldom have I been stirred 

 to such admiration as in the case of this gentle mother schistacea. So 



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