The inner nest could be removed entire 

 from the outer wall, and was composed 

 of a loosely woven but, from its thick- 

 ness, somewhat dense fabric of fine ma- 

 terials, consisting mainly of the bleached 

 stems of some slender sedge and the 

 black and shining rootlets of ferns, closely 

 resembling horsehair. Between the two 

 sections of the structure and appearing 

 only when they were separated, was a 

 scant layer of the glossy orange pedicels 

 of a moss not a fragment of which was 

 elsewhere visible. The walls of the in- 

 ternal nest were about one-half an inch 

 in thickness and had doubtless been ac- 

 complished with a view of protection 

 from dampness." The nests are some- 

 times made of dried grasses interwoven 

 with various mosses and lined with moss 



and fine black wire-like roots. Again, 

 the birds seem to have an eye for color 

 and will face the outside of the nest with 

 fresh and bright green moss. In every 

 way the nest seems a large house for so 

 small a bird. 



To study this Flycatcher "one must 

 seek the northern evergreen forests, 

 where, far from human habitations, its 

 mournful notes blend with the murmur 

 of some icy brook tumbling over mossy 

 stones or gushing beneath the still mos- 

 sier decayed logs that threaten to bar the 

 way. Where all is green and dark and 

 cool, in some glen overarched by crowd- 

 ing spruces and firs, birches and maples, 

 there it is we find him and in the beds of 

 damp moss he skillfully conceals his 

 nest." 



THE REIGN OF THE WHIPPOORWILLS. 



When dews begin to chill 



The blossom throngs, 

 And soft the brooklets trill 



Their slumber-songs, 

 We dusky Whippoorwills 

 In conquest hold the hills. 



When, thro' the midnight dells, 



Wild star-beams glow, 

 Like wan-eyed sentinels, 



We dreamvvard go, 

 And hear sung sweetly o'er 

 The songs we stilled before. 



When waketh dawn, we flee 



The slumber-main, 

 And bid the songsters be 



With us again 

 To sing in praise of light 

 Above the buried night. 



But O, when sunrise gleam?, 



We vanish fast, 

 And woo again in dreams 



The starlit past, 

 Till, lo! at twilight gray, 

 We wail the dirge of day! 



— Frank English. 



101 



