but in that land of "skies so blue they flash," he
sings it at the top of his voice, louder than the robin song as we know
it, and easily heard above the roar of the wind and the brawling of the
brook he haunts.

Before me at this moment is the nest of one of these little sprites,
which I watched till the last dumpy infant had taken flight, and then
secured with the branchlet it was built upon. It was in a young oak, not
more than twelve feet from the ground, occupying a perpendicular fork,
where it was concealed and shaded by no less than sixteen twigs,
standing upright, and loaded with leaves. The graceful cup itself, to
judge by its looks, might be made of white floss silk,--I have no
curiosity to know the actual material,--and is cushioned inside with
downy fibres from the cottonwood-tree. It is dainty enough for a fairy's
cradle.

The wood-pewee, in dress and manners nearly resembling his Eastern
brother,

"The pewee of the loneliest woods,
Sole singer in the solitudes,"

has a strange and decidedly original utterance. While much louder and
more continuous, it lacks the sweetness of our bird's notes; indeed, it
resembles in quality of tone the voice of our phoebe, or his beautiful
relative, the great-crested flycatcher. The Westerner has a great deal
to say for himself. On alighting, he announces the fact by a single
note, which is a habit also of our phoebe; he sings the sun up in the
morning, and he sings it down in the evening, and he would be a
delightful neighbor if only his voice were pleasing. But there is little
charm in the music, for it is in truth a dismal chant, with the air and
cheerfulness of a funeral dirge--a pessimistic performance that inspires
the listener with a desire to choke him then and there.

This bird's nest, as well as his song, is unlike that of our wood-pewee.
Instead of a delicate, lichen-covered saucer set lightly upon a
horizontal crotch of a dead branch,--our bird's chosen home,--it is a
deeper cup, fastened tightly upon a large living branch, and, at least
in a cottonwood grove, decorated on the outside with the fluffy cotton
from the trees.

Even the humming-bird, who contents himself in this part of the world
with a modest hum, heard but a short distance away, at the foot of the
Rocky Mountains may almost be called a noisy bird. The first one I
noticed dashed out of a thickly leaved tree with loud, angry cries,
swooped down toward me, and flew back and forth over my h