e from surveillance and take
his leave.

The yellow-breasted chat, the long-tailed variety belonging to the West,
delivers his strange medley of "chacks" and whistles, and rattles and
other indescribable cries, in a voice that is loud and distinct, as well
as sweet and rich. He is a bird of humor, too, with a mocking spirit not
common in his race. One day, while sitting motionless in a hidden nook,
trying to spy upon the domestic affairs of this elusive individual, I
was startled by the so-called "laugh" of a robin, which was instantly
repeated by a chat, unseen, but quite near. The robin, apparently
surprised or interested, called again, and was a second time mocked.
Then he lost his temper, and began a serious reproof to the levity of
his neighbor, which ended in a good round scolding, as the saucy chat
continued to repeat his taunting laugh. This went on till the red-breast
flew away in high dudgeon.

Why our little brothers in feathers are so much more boisterous than
elsewhere,

"Up in the parks and the mesas wide,
Under the blue of the bluest sky,"

has not, so far as I know, been discovered.

Whether it be the result of habitual opposition to the strong winds
which, during the season of song, sweep over the plains every day, or
whether the exhilaration of the mountain air be the cause--who can
tell?

IV.

THE TRAGEDY OF A NEST.

Near to the Camp, a little closer to beautiful Cheyenne Mountain, lay a
small park. It was a continuation of the grove, through which the brook
came roaring and tumbling down from the canyons above, and, being several
miles from the town, it had never become a popular resort. A few winding
paths, and a rude bench here and there, were the only signs of man's
interference with its native wildness; it was practically abandoned to
the birds--and me.

The birds had full possession when I appeared on the scene, and though I
did my best to be unobtrusive, my presence was not so welcome as I could
have wished. Every morning when I came slowly and quietly up the little
path from the gate, bird-notes suddenly ceased; the grosbeak, pouring
out his soul from the top of a pine-tree, dived down the other side; the
towhee, picking up his breakfast on the ground, scuttled behind the
bushes and disappeared; the humming-bird, interrupted in her morning
"affairs," flew off over my head, scolding vigorously; only the
vireo--serene as always--went on warbling and eating, undisturbed.