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When The Birds Are Nesting. 
BY ELIZABETH GRI N NELL. 
27 
an area about fifty yards square adjoining' our 
home, are enacted the incidents and scenes de¬ 
scribed. No home in this land of sunshine need 
be without similar associations. To plant a tree 
or shrub is to invite the birds. But tree and shrub 
must grow. Here are hints for those who bide 
the growing : A pile of fruit tree primings, to 
be had for the asking and the bringing, may be 
made a great inducement. Boughs zigzag, little 
sticks interlacing, an uneven mesh of knotted fila¬ 
ment usually condemned to the back yard gehenna, offer untold at¬ 
tractions to many of our birds. In this partial shelter they pla) r 
hide-and-seek with their threaded shadows, feed upon insects which 
seek the spot for the same reasons as themselves, or “ sit and think,” 
as birds appear to do, at intervals during the day. If it’s sufficiently 
dense, they may even sleep at night in the brush pile. To induce 
them to build, at nesting time, about a home whose vines have yet to 
grow, blue gum or pepper boughs thickly foliaged, fastened about 
the eaves or above the balcony, will prove acceptable to the linnets 
at least, perchance to the mockers. Berry boxes or cigar boxes nailed 
high up under the north eaves of house or stable tempt the phoebe 
birds. Of course the litter of brush-pile and dead foliage ma) r hor¬ 
rify the lover of immaculate surroundings, but, perish the birds ! 
For be it known that our birds despise the presence of the landscape 
gardener, with his lawn mower, and clipping machines, and pruning 
hooks. They dy from his art as from a plague, and hie them to the 
wild, helter-skelter, half-untidy dooryard of the less artistic but more 
fervent bird lover. 
One November day, when the winds played havoc among our trees, 
a great pine was pushed from its moorings and leaned far to the 
south. Its roots like a many fingered hand lost clutch of the soil, 
and pointed reproachfully skyward. “Cut it up,” said the wood- 
chopper. “It is only fit to burn, and pine makes good fire wood. 
The roots are especially rich.” 
A mocking-bird alighted on what had been its tufted apex and sent 
regretful glances through the bearded boughs. That glance gave us 
a suggestion. A house-mover came. A cluck to his horses and a 
click of the pulley chain, and the last reluctant earth-born tendril 
let go its hold. The great root was severed from the main trunk a 
few feet from the point of incorporation, and lo, a thing of beauty ! 
Of tint like the deepest redwood, elbowed, gnarled, with bark like 
bits of raveled silk, this underground octopus was just what we had 
wanted. The stem was buried, holding the root aloft, in the front 
3 r ard ten feet from the window. Visitors lifted their hands in won¬ 
der. The birds also wondered. From wondering they ventured, and 
from venturing they loved. An Australian pea vine was planted at 
its base and soon crowned its pinnacled summit. 
This leafless tree became our Bird’s Commercial House. Among 
the roots we tangled all sorts of nesting materials, big and little 
strings, last year’s fluffy pampas plumes, lichens from arroyo witch- 
nooks, strips of rag, soft and old, hair combings left over from the 
stable currycomb, and--happiest thought of all — white, downy, sur¬ 
geon’s cotton. Now this cotton has turned the head of every bird at¬ 
tracted to it. The earliest to nest was the hummer, and she had the 
choice of materials. Nothing was suitable until she was ready for 
the lining. She poised above the cotton with slender black beak, and 
tore the gossamer apart like strands of spider’s web. So fascinated 
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