t for material, the
other--presumably the male--guarded the nest. As there was nothing to
guard as yet, it often seemed a matter of venting his own spleen! When
not occupied in arranging his plumes, he would shoot down at every small
bird that came upstairs; a cowardly proceeding, but perhaps he thought
it necessary to keep his hand in against meeting bigger boys than he!
When coming with material, one of the bee-birds got caught in a heavy
rope of cobweb that dangled from the nest, and had to flutter hard to
extricate itself. About their nests these birds seemed as home-loving as
any others. Their domesticity quite surprised me; they had always seemed
such harsh, scolding, aggressive birds! When one of them sat among the
green leaves, pluming the soft sulphur yellow feathers of its breast, it
looked so gentle and attractive that it was a shock when the familiar
petulant screams again jarred the air. The birds often hunted from the
fence beyond the sycamore, and flew from post to post with legs
dangling, shaking their wings as they lit, with a shrill _kit'r'r'r'r'_.

The sycamore was a regular apartment house; so many birds were moving
among the boughs it was impossible to tell where they all lived. One day
I found a pair of doves sitting on a sunny branch above me. The one I
took to be the male sat perched crosswise, while his mate sat facing
him, lengthwise of the limb. He calmly fluffed out his feathers and
preened himself, while his meek spouse watched him. She fluttered her
wings, teasing him to feed her, but he kept on dressing out his plumes.
Then she edged a little closer, and almost essayed to touch his majesty
with her pretty blue bill, but he sat with lordly composure quite
ignoring her existence till a blackbird bustled up, when they both
started nervously, and turning, sat demurely side by side on the limb,
the wind tilting their long tails.

A pair of bright orange orioles had a nest in the sycamore, though I
never should have known it had I not seen them go to it to feed their
young. It was a well shaded cradle surely, with its canopy of big green
leaves.

There were a good many hints to be had, first and last. A song sparrow
appeared and stood on a branch with its tail perked up in a
business-like way as if it had been feeding a brood. A wren came to the
tree,--a mere pinch of feathers in the giant sycamore,--and though I
lost sight of it, many a hollow up in the fourteenth story might have
afforded a