o the foundation of its nest.
"Evil communications corrupt good manners." The newspaper and the
rag-bag unsettle the wits of the birds. The phoebe-bird is capable
of this kind of mistake or indiscretion. All the past generations of
her tribe have built upon natural and, therefore, neutral sites,
usually under shelving and overhanging rocks, and the art of adapting
the nest to its surroundings, blending it with them, has been highly
developed. But phoebe now frequently builds under our sheds and
porches, where, so far as concealment is concerned, a change of
material, say from moss to dry grass or shreds of bark, would be an
advantage to her; but she departs not a bit from the family
traditions; she uses the same woodsy mosses, which in some cases,
especially when the nest is placed upon newly sawed timber, make her
secret an open one to all eyes.

It does indeed often look as if the birds had very little sense. Think
of a bluebird, or an oriole, or a robin, or a jay, fighting for hours
at a time its own image as reflected in a pane of glass; quite
exhausting itself in its fury to demolish its supposed rival! Yet I
have often witnessed this little comedy. It is another instance of how
the arts of our civilization corrupt and confuse the birds. It may be
that in the course of many generations the knowledge of glass will get
into their blood, and they will cease to be fooled by it, as they may
also in time learn what a poor foundation the newspaper is to build
upon. The ant or the bee could not be fooled by the glass in that way
for a moment.

_Have_ the birds and our other wild neighbors sense, as distinguished
from instinct? Is a change of habits to meet new conditions, or the
taking advantage of accidental circumstances, an evidence of sense?
How many birds appear to have taken advantage of the protection
afforded by man in building their nests! How many of them build near
paths and along roadsides, to say nothing of those that come close to
our dwellings! Even the quail seems to prefer the borders of the
highway to the open fields. I have chanced upon only three quails'
nests, and these were all by the roadside. One season a scarlet
tanager that had failed with her first nest in the woods came to try
again in a little cherry tree that stood in the open, a few feet from
my cabin, where I could almost touch the nest with my hand as I
passed. But in my absence she again came to grief, some marauder,
probably a red squi