His purpose was to cut the branch as near to the nest as he dared, both
from the standpoint of the bird's peace of mind and his own safety. The
further from the nest he cut, the thicker would be the branch, and the
more cutting there would be to do. To cut too near to the nest might
frighten his little neighbor on the branch, and endanger his own life.

Yet if he cut the branch where it was thick, how could he handle it
after it was detached? How would he get down with it through all that
network of lower branches?

In his quandary he hit on a plan involving new peril for himself and
doubtless some agitation to his little neighbor. He would not detach the
nest from its branch, for how could he ever attach it to another branch
in a way satisfactory to that finicky little householder? He knew enough
about his business to know that no bird would continue to live in a nest
which had been tampered with to that extent.

So he advanced cautiously out on the branch again till he could reach
the nest. Then very gently he bound his handkerchief about the opening.
Having done this, he cut into the branch with his scout knife within
about six or eight inches of the nest. When he had cut the branch almost
through it was a pretty ticklish matter, straddling the stubby end, for
he had the tip of the branch with the nest still in his hand and was in
danger of losing his balance.

Sitting there with his legs pressed up tight against the under side of
the branch so as to hold his balance on his precarious seat, he held
the end in one hand while he carefully pulled away the twigs from the
end beyond the nest. Thus he had a piece of branch perhaps twenty inches