In a convenient fork was a sort of rude platform of twigs
and branches and creeping things. It was more like a huge bird-nest than
anything else, though it was a thousand times cruder in the weaving than
any bird-nest. But it had one feature that I have never seen attached to
any bird-nest, namely, a roof.

Oh, not a roof such as modern man makes! Nor a roof such as is made by
the lowest aborigines of to-day. It was infinitely more clumsy than the
clumsiest handiwork of man--of man as we know him. It was put together
in a casual, helter-skelter sort of way. Above the fork of the tree
whereon we rested was a pile of dead branches and brush. Four or five
adjacent forks held what I may term the various ridge-poles. These were
merely stout sticks an inch or so in diameter. On them rested the brush
and branches. These seemed to have been tossed on almost aimlessly.
There was no attempt at thatching. And I must confess that the roof
leaked miserably in a heavy rain.

But the Chatterer. He made home-life a burden for both my mother and
me--and by home-life I mean, not the leaky nest in the tree, but the
group-life of the three of us. He was most malicious in his persecution
of me. That was the one purpose to which he held steadfastly for longer
than five minutes. Also, as time went by, my mother was less eager in
her defence of me. I think, what of the continuous rows raised by the
Chatterer, that I must have become a nuisance to her. At any rate, the
situation went from bad to worse so rapidly that I should soon, of my
own volition, have left home. But the satisfaction of performing so
independent an act was denied me. Before I was ready to go, I was thrown
out. And I mean this literally.

The opportunity came to the Chatterer one day when I was alone in the
nest. My mother and the Chatterer had gone away together toward the
blueberry swamp. He must have planned the whole thing, for I heard him
returning alone through the forest, roaring with self-induced rage as he
came. Like all the men of our horde, when they were angry or were trying
to make themselves angry, he stopped now and again to hammer on his
chest with his fist.

I realized the helplessness of my situation, and crouched trembling in
the nest. The Chatterer came directly to the tree--I remember it was an
oak tree--and began to climb up. And he never ceased for a moment from
his infernal row. As I have said, our language was extremely meagre, and
he must have