The Verdin 
Verdins are not gregarious, like Bush-tits; but also they are never 
solitary, for they roam the desert in pairs, or, in small family groups, 
or in loose association. It is here that the remarkable penetrative, or 
carrying power, of the silp note serves the Verdin in good stead, for it 
allows mated birds to hunt, say, a hundred yards apart, without actually 
losing each other. 
Once, in the Colorado River bottom, I heard a sudden piteous out¬ 
cry, a miniature uproar, jeeb, jeeb, jeeb, jeeb, from an unsuspected number 
of Verdins at once. The notes were specifically new, but generically similar 
to the universal Sharp-shin alarm of the smaller birds. Sure enough, 
there was a Sharp-shin (Accipiter velox), the slinking devil! hiding in a 
Lycium bush and glowering wickedly over the recollection of a missed 
stroke. 
The strong local attachments of the Verdins are evidenced by the 
successive ages of their nests, placed as likely as not in a single tree. 
These interesting objects are monumental, as well in size and prominence 
as in durability. Save when bedded in the heart of a mistletoe (Phora- 
dendron calif or nicum), the sturdy globular nests of the Verdin are as 
prominent as so many tin cans would be if lodged at random in all but 
leafless branches. These structures owe their comparative immunity 
from attack to their very rugged walls of interlaced twigs, whether mes- 
quite or cat’s claw, or, better yet, of “all thorns,” and to the tiny hole 
in one side, just large enough to admit the tiny owner. The ingenuity 
as well as sheer physical strength shown by the birds in the construction 
of these fortresses almost taxes comprehension. I have before me a nest 
built in a hackberry, and composed externally of bristling thorn twigs, 
each six or eight inches long, and so adroitly enmeshed that no single twig 
may now be removed without virtually wrecking the entire structure. 
During incubation the birds are rather careful not to be seen in the 
vicinity of the nest, and the female does not quit her charge without 
being rudely disturbed. On May 14, 1917, I sighted a likely looking 
domicile four feet up in the midst of one of those terrible “allthorn” 
bushes. I was thrusting in an exploratory finger when a struggling and 
very irate female forced a passage out, and ruffled with indignation, sat 
at four feet demanding what right I had to enter a lady’s boudoir. My! 
but she was beautiful, and imperious, with every jewel of color flashing 
a double radiance—or so it seemed to excited fancy. The bad man 
apologized, of course, and proceeded to cut down the nest and to invert 
it very carefully—for this is the only way one can possibly determine 
the contents of a Verdin’s nest without ruining it. Four opalescent gems 
rolled out slowly, one after another, upon the “floor” of the inverted 
porch roof, or cowl, which normally protects the entrance. To return the 
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