t we had almost a proprietary interest in
that little lichen-covered nest resting snugly in a fork of a dead
branch, for we had assisted in building it, at least by our daily
presence, during the week or two that she spent in bringing, in the most
desultory way, snips of material, fastening them in place, and moulding
the whole by getting in the nest and pressing her breast against it,
while turning slowly round and round. Now that she had really settled
herself to sit, we never neglected to leave a card upon her, so to
speak, every morning.

As we approached we were pleased to see her trim lord and master bearing
in his mouth what was no doubt intended for a delicate offering to cheer
her weary hours, for a gauzy yellow wing stuck out on each side of his
beak, suggesting something uncommonly nice within. He stood a moment
till we should pass, looking the picture of unconsciousness, and defying
us to assert that he had a house and home anywhere about that tree. But
when we did not pass, after hesitatingly hopping from perch to perch
nearer the nest, he deliberately diverted yellow wing from its original
destiny, swallowed it himself, and wiped his beak with an air that said:
"There now! What can you make out of that?"

Ashamed to have deprived the little sitter of her treat, we folded our
stools and resumed our march.

How shall one put into words the delights of the woods in June without
"dropping into poetry?" Does not our own native poet say:--

"Who speeds to the woodland walks?
To birds and trees who talks?
Caesar of his leafy Rome,
There the _poet_ is at home."

But if one is not a poet, must he then suffer and enjoy in silence? When
he puts aside the leafy portiere and enters the cool green paradise of
the trees, must he be dumb? Slowly, almost solemnly, we walked up the
beautiful road with its carpet of dead leaves. It was as silent of man's
ways as if he were not within a thousand miles, and we had all the
enjoyment of the deep forest, with the comforting assurance that five
minutes' walk would bring us to people.

A small family in dark slate-color and white, with a curious taste for
the antique cave-dwelling, was next on our list. The home was an
excavation in the soft earth, held together by the roots of an
overturned tree, and everything was quiet when we arrived--the two
well-grown infants sound asleep on their hair mattress. We sat down to
wait, and in a moment we heard the anxious "pip" o