of its natural enemies, save snakes and weasels. But concealment often
avails little. In May, a song-sparrow, that had evidently met with
disaster earlier in the season, built its nest in a thick mass of
woodbine against the side of my house, about fifteen feet from the
ground. Perhaps it took the hint from its cousin, the English sparrow.
The nest was admirably placed, protected from the storms by the
overhanging eaves and from all eyes by the thick screen of leaves.
Only by patiently watching the suspicious bird, as she lingered near
with food in her beak, did I discover its whereabouts. That brood is
safe, I thought, beyond doubt. But it was not; the nest was pillaged
one night, either by an owl, or else by a rat that had climbed into the
vine, seeking an entrance to the house. The mother-bird, after
reflecting upon her ill-luck about a week, seemed to resolve to
try a different system of tactics and to throw all appearances of
concealment aside. She built a nest few yards from the house beside
the drive, upon a smooth piece of greensward. There was not a weed or
a shrub or anything whatever to conceal it or mark its site.
The structure was completed and incubation had begun before I
discovered what was going on. "Well, well," I said, looking down upon
the bird almost at my feet, "this is going to the other extreme indeed;
now, the cats will have you." The desperate little bird sat there day
after day, looking like a brown leaf pressed down in the short green
grass. As the weather grew hot, her position became very trying.
It was no longer a question of keeping the eggs warm, but of keeping
them from roasting. The sun had no mercy on her, and she fairly panted
in the middle of the day. In such an emergency the male robin has been
known to perch above the sitting female and shade her with his
outstretched wings. But in this case there was no perch for the male
bird, had he been disposed to make a sunshade of himself. I thought to
lend a hand in this direction myself, and so stuck a leafy twig beside