berries, and to bite into them, as if to taste their quality. He was
not long in loading up, however, and in making off again. But I had now
got tired of the joke, and my berries were appreciably diminishing, so
I moved away. What was most curious about the proceeding was, that the
little poacher took different directions each time, and returned from
different ways. Was this to elude pursuit, or was he distributing the
fruit to his friends and neighbors about, astonishing them with
strawberries for lunch ?

But I am making slow headway toward finding the birds'-nests, for I had
set out on this occasion in hopes of finding a rare nest,--the nest of
the black-throated blue-backed warbler, which, it seemed, with one or
two others, was still wanting to make the history of our warblers
complete. The woods were extensive, and full of deep, dark tangles, and
looking for any particular nest seemed about as hopeless a task as
searching for a needle in a haystack, as the old saying is. Where to
begin, and how? But the principle is the same as in looking for a hen's
nest,--first find your bird, then watch its movements.

The bird is in these woods, for I have seen him scores of times, but
whether he builds high or low, on the ground or in the trees, is all
unknown to me. That is his song now,--"twe-twea-twe-e-e-a," with a
peculiar summer languor and plaintiveness, and issuing from the lower
branches and growths. Presently we--for I have been joined by a
companion--discover the bird, a male, insecting in the top of a newly
fallen hemlock. The black, white, and blue of his uniform are seen at a
glance. His movements are quite slow compared with some of the
warblers. If he will only betray the locality of that little domicile
where his plainly clad mate is evidently sitting, it is all we will ask
of him. But this he seems in no wise disposed to do. Here and there,