ke
a basket.

Very few species use the same material uniformly. I have seen the
nest of the robin quite destitute of mud. In one instance it was
composed mainly of long black horse-hairs, arranged in a circular
manner, with a lining of fine yellow grass; the whole presenting
quite a novel appearance. In another case the nest was chiefly
constructed of a species of rock moss.

The nest for the second brood during the same season is often a mere
makeshift. The haste of the female to deposit her eggs as the season
advances seems very great, and the structure is apt to be
prematurely finished. I was recently reminded of this fact by
happening, about the last of July, to meet with several nests of the
wood or bush sparrow in a remote blackberry field. The nests with
eggs were far less elaborate and compact than the earlier nests,
from which the young had flown.

Day after day, as I go to a certain piece of woods, I observe a male
indigo-bird sitting on precisely the same part of a high branch, and
singing in his most vivacious style. As I approach he ceases to
sing, and, flirting his tail right and left with marked emphasis,
chirps sharply. In a low bush near by, I come upon the object of his
solicitude,--a thick, compact nest composed largely of dry leaves
and fine grass, in which a plain brown bird is sitting upon four
pale blue eggs.

The wonder is that a bird will leave the apparent security of the
treetops to place its nest in the way of the many dangers that walk
and crawl upon the ground. There, far up out of reach, sings the
bird; here, not three feet from the ground, are its eggs or helpless
young. The truth is, birds are the greatest enemies of birds, and it
is with reference to this fact that many of the smaller species
build.

Perhaps the greatest proportion of birds breed along highways. I
have known the ruffed grouse to come out of a dense wood and make
its nest at the root of a tree within ten paces of the road, where,
no doubt, hawks and crows, as well as skunks and foxes, would be
less likely to find it out. Traversing remote mountain-roads through
dense woods, I have repeatedly seen the veery, or Wilson's thrush,
sitting upon her nest, so near me that I could almost take her from
it by stretching out my hand. Birds of prey show none of this
confidence in man, and, when locating their nests, avoid rather than
seek his haunts.

In a certain locality in the interior of New York, I know, every
season