t their affright." The news instantly spread in every
direction, and apparently every bird in town came to see that owl in
the cherry-tree, and every bird took a cherry, so that I lost more fruit
than if I had left the owl in-doors. With craning necks and horrified
looks the birds alighted upon the branches, and between their screams
would snatch off a cherry, as if the act was some relief to their
outraged feelings.

The chirp and chatter of the young of birds which build in concealed or
inclosed places, like the woodpeckers, the house wren, the high-hole,
the oriole, is in marked contrast to the silence of the fledglings
of most birds that build open and exposed nests. The young of the
sparrows,--unless the social sparrow be an exception,--warblers,
fly-catchers, thrushes, never allow a sound to escape them; and on
the alarm note of their parents being heard, sit especially close
and motionless, while the young of chimney swallows, woodpeckers, and
orioles are very noisy. The latter, in its deep pouch, is quite safe
from birds of prey, except perhaps the owl. The owl, I suspect, thrusts
its leg into the cavities of woodpeckers and into the pocket-like nest
of the oriole, and clutches and brings forth the birds in its talons.
In one case which I heard of, a screech-owl had thrust its claw into a
cavity in a tree, and grasped the head of a red-headed woodpecker; being
apparently unable to draw its prey forth, it had thrust its own round
head into the hole, and in some way became fixed there, and had thus
died with the woodpecker in its talons.

The life of birds is beset with dangers and mishaps of which we know
little. One day, in my walk, I came upon a goldfinch with the tip of one
wing securely fastened to the feathers of its rump, by what appeared
to be the silk of some caterpillar. The bird, though uninjured, was
completely crippled, and could not fly a stroke. Its little body was hot
and panting in my hands, as I carefully broke the fetter. Then it
darted swiftly away with a happy cry. A record of all the accidents
and tragedies of bird life for a single season would show many curious
incidents. A friend of mine opened his box-stove one fall to kindle a
fire in it, when he beheld in the black interior the desiccated forms of
two bluebirds. The birds had probably taken refuge in the chimney during
some cold spring storm, and had come down the pipe to the stove, from
whence they were unable to ascend. A peculiarly