had begun to stir the branches, when she would start out, and,
just skimming the ground, make a bright brown line to the near fence
and bushes. I confidently expected that this nest would escape
molestation, but it did not. Its discovery by myself and dog probably
opened the door for ill luck, as one day, not long afterward, when I
peeped in upon it, it was empty. The proud song of the male had ceased
from his accustomed tree, and the pair were seen no more in that
vicinity.

The phoebe-bird is a wise architect, and perhaps enjoys as great an
immunity from danger, both in its person and its nest, as any other
bird. Its modest, ashen-gray suit is the color of the rocks where it
builds, and the moss of which it makes such free use gives to its nest
the look of a natural growth or accretion. But when it comes into the
barn or under the shed to build, as it so frequently does, the moss is
rather out of place. Doubtless in time the bird will take the hint,
and when she builds in such places will leave the moss out. I noted
but two nests, the summer I am speaking of: one, in a barn, failed of
issue, on account of the rats, I suspect, though the little owl may
have been the depredator; the other, in the woods, sent forth three
young. This latter nest was most charmingly and ingeniously placed.
I discovered it while in quest of pond-lilies, in a long, deep level
stretch of water in the woods. A large tree had blown over at the edge
of the water, and its dense mass of up-turned roots, with the black,
peaty soil filling the interstices, was like the fragment of a wall
several feet high, rising from the edge of the languid current. In a
niche in this earthy wall, and visible and accessible only from the
water, a phoebe had built her nest, and reared her brood. I paddled my
boat up and came alongside prepared to take the family aboard.
The young, nearly ready to fly, were quite undisturbed by my presence,