How alert and vigilant¹ the birds are, even when absorbed in building their nests! In an open space in the woods I see a pair of cedar-birds collecting moss² from the top of a dead tree. Following the direction in which they fly, I soon discover the nest placed in the fork of a small soft maple³, which stands amid a thick growth of wild cherry-trees and young beeches⁵. Carefully concealing⁷ myself beneath it, without any fear that the workmen will hit me with a chip or let fall a tool, I await the return of the busy pair. Presently I hear the well-known note, and the female sweeps down and settles unsuspectingly into the half-finished structure. Hardly have her wings rested before her eye has penetrated⁸ my screen, and with a hurried movement of alarm she darts⁹ away. In a moment the male, with a tuft of wool in his beak¹⁰ (for there is a sheep pasture near), joins her, and the two reconnoitre the premises¹¹ from the surrounding bushes. With their beaks¹² still loaded, they move around with a frightened look, and refuse to approach the nest till I have moved off and lain down behind a log. Then one of them ventures to alight upon the nest, but, still suspecting all is not right, quickly darts away again. Then they both together come, and after much peeping and spying about, and apparently¹³ much anxious consultation¹⁴, cautiously proceed to work. In less than half an hour it would seem that wool enough has been brought to supply the whole family, real and prospective¹⁵, with socks, if needles and fingers could be found fine enough to knit it up. In less than a week the female has begun to deposit her eggs,—four of them in as many days,—white tinged¹⁷ with purple, with black spots on the larger end. After two weeks of incubation the young are out.  
Excepting the American goldfinch, this bird builds later in the season than any other,—its nest, in our northern climate, seldom being undertaken until July. As with the goldfinch, the reason is, probably, that suitable food for the young cannot be had at an earlier period.
 
Like most of our common species, as the robin¹⁸, sparrow, bluebird, pewee, wren¹⁹, etc., this bird sometimes seeks wild, remote localities in which to rear its young; at others, takes up its abode²⁰ near that of man. I knew a pair of cedar-birds, one season, to build in an apple-tree, the branches of which rubbed against the house. For a day or two before the first straw was laid, I noticed the pair carefully exploring every branch of the tree, the female taking the lead, the male following her with an anxious note and look. It was evident that the wife was to have her choice this time; and like one who thoroughly²¹ knew her mind, she was proceeding²² to take it. Finally the site was chosen, upon a high branch, extending over one low wing of the house. Mutual²³ congratulations and caresses²⁵ followed, when both birds flew away in quest of building material. That most freely used is a sort of cotton-bearing plant which grows in old wornout fields. The nest is large for the size of the bird, and very soft. It is in every respect a first-class domicile.
 
On another occasion, while walking or rather sauntering in the woods (for I have discovered that one cannot run and read the book of nature), my attention was arrested by a dull hammering, evidently but a few rods off. I said to myself, "Some one is building a house." From what I had previously²⁶ seen, I suspected the builder to be a red-headed woodpecker in the top of a dead oak stub near by. Moving cautiously in that direction, I perceived a round hole, about the size of that made by an inch-and-a-half auger²⁷, near the top of the decayed trunk, and the white chips of the workman strewing²⁸ the ground beneath. When but a few paces from the tree, my foot pressed upon a dry twig²⁹, which gave forth³⁰ a very slight snap. Instantly the hammering ceased, and a scarlet³¹ head appeared at the door. Though I remained perfectly³² motionless, forbearing even to wink³³ till my eyes smarted, the bird refused to go on with his work, but flew quietly off to a neighboring tree. What surprised me was, that, amid his busy occupation down in the heart of the old tree, he should have been so alert and watchful³⁴ as to catch the slightest sound from without.
 
The woodpeckers all build in about the same manner, excavating³⁵ the trunk or branch of a decayed tree and depositing the eggs on the fine fragments of wood at the bottom of the cavity. Though the nest is not especially an artistic³⁶ work,—requiring strength rather than skill,—yet the eggs and the young of few other birds are so completely housed from the elements, or protected from their natural enemies, the jays, hawks³⁸, and owls³⁹. A tree with a natural cavity is never selected, but one which has been dead just long enough to have become soft and brittle⁴⁰ throughout. The bird goes in horizontally for a few inches, making a hole perfectly round and smooth and adapted to his size, then turns downward, gradually enlarging the hole, as he proceeds to the softness of the tree and the urgency of the mother bird to deposit her eggs. While excavating, male and female work alternately. After one has been engaged fifteen or twenty minutes, drilling and carrying out chips, it ascends⁴¹ to an upper limb, utters a loud call or two, when its mate soon appears, and, alighting near it on the branch, the pair chatter⁴² and caress²⁴ a moment, then the fresh one enters the cavity and the other flies away.
 
A few days since I climbed up to the nest of the downy woodpecker, in the decayed top of a sugar maple. For better protection against driving rains, the hole, which was rather more than an inch in diameter, was made immediately beneath a branch which stretched out almost horizontally from the main stem. It appeared merely a deeper shadow upon the dark and mottled surface of the bark with which the branches were covered, and could not be detected by the eye until one was within a few feet of it. The young chirped⁴⁵ vociferously⁴⁶ as I approached the nest, thinking it was the old one with food; but the clamor suddenly ceased as I put my hand on that part of the trunk in which they were concealed⁴⁷, the unusual jarring and rustling⁴⁸ alarming them into silence. The cavity, which was about fifteen inches deep, was gourd⁴⁹-shaped, and was wrought⁵⁰ out with great skill and regularity⁵¹. The walls were quite smooth and clean and new.
 
I shall never forget the circumstances of observing a pair of yellow-bellied woodpeckers—the most rare and secluded⁵², and, nest to the red-headed, the most beautiful species found in our woods—breeding in an old, truncated⁵³ beech⁴ in the Beaverkill Mountains, on offshoot of the Catskills. We had been traveling, three of us, all day in search of a trout⁵⁴ lake, which lay far in among the mountains, had twice lost our course in the trackless forest, and, weary and hungry, had sat down to rest upon a decayed log. The chattering⁵⁵ of the young, and the passing to and fro of the parent birds, soon arrested my attention. The entrance to the nest was on the east side of the tree, about twenty-five feet from the ground. At intervals⁵⁶ of scarcely a minute, the old birds, one after the other, would alight upon the edge of the hole with a grub or worm in their beaks; then each in turn would make a bow or two, cast an eye quickly around, and by a single movement place itself in the neck of the passage. Here it would pause a moment, as if to determine in which expectant mouth to place the morsel⁵⁷, and then disappear within. In about half a minute, during which time that chattering of the young gradually subsided⁵⁸, the bird would again emerge, but this time bearing in its beak the ordure of one of the helpless family. Flying away very slowly with head lowered and extended, as if anxious to hold the offensive object as far from its plumage as possible, the bird dropped the unsavory morsel in the course of a few yards, and, alighting on a tree, wiped its bill on the bark and moss. This seems to be the order all day,—carrying in and carrying out. I watched the birds for an hour, while my companions were taking their turns in exploring the lay of the land around us, and noted⁵⁹ no variation in the programme. It would be curious to know if the young are fed and waited upon in regular order, and how, amid the darkness and the crowded state of the apartment, the matter is so neatly⁶⁰ managed. But ornithologists are all silent upon the subject.
 
This practice of the birds is not so uncommon⁶¹ as it might at first seem. It is indeed almost an invariable rule among all land birds. With woodpeckers and kindred species, and with birds that burrow⁶² in the ground, as bank swallows, kingfishers, etc., it is a necessity. The accumulation of the excrement⁶³ in the nest would prove most fatal to the young.
 
But even among birds that neither bore nor mine, but which build a shallow nest on the branch of a tree or upon the ground, as the robin, the finches, the buntings, etc., the ordure of the young is removed to a distance by the parent bird. When the robin is seen going away from its brood with a slow, heavy flight, entirely⁶⁴ different from its manner a moment before on approaching the nest with a cherry or worm, it is certain to be engaged in this office. One may observe the social sparrow, when feeding its young, pause a moment after the worm has been given and hop⁶⁵ around on the brink⁶⁶ of the nest observing the movements within.
 
The instinct of cleanliness no doubt prompts the action in all cases, though the disposition⁶⁷ to secrecy⁶⁸ or concealment⁶⁹ may not me unmixed in it
 
The swallows form an exception to the rule, the excrement being voided by the young over the brink of the nest. They form an exception, also, to the rule of secrecy, aiming not so much to conceal⁶ the nest as to render it inaccessible⁷⁰.
 
Other exceptions are the pigeons, hawks, and water-fowls⁷¹.
 
But to return. Having a good chance to note the color and markings of the woodpeckers as they passed in and out at the opening of the nest, I saw that Audubon had made a mistake in figuring or describing the female of this species with the red spot upon the head. I have seen a number of pairs of them, and in no instance have I seen the mother bird marked with red.
 
The male was in full plumage, and I reluctantly shot him for a specimen⁷². Passing by the place again next day, I paused a moment to note how matters stood. I confess it was not without some compunctions that I heard the cries of the young birds, and saw the widowed mother, her cares now doubled, hastening to and fro in the solitary⁷³ woods. She would occasionally pause expectantly on the trunk of a tree and utter a loud call.
 
It usually happens, when the male of any species is killed during the breeding season, that the female soon procures⁷⁴ another mate. There are, most likely, always a few unmated birds of both sexes within a given range, and through these the broken links may be restored. Audubon or Wilson, I forget which, tells of a pair of fish hawks, or ospreys, that built their nest in an ancient oak. The male was so zealous⁷⁶ in the defense⁷⁷ of the young that he actually attacked with beak and claw a person who attempted to climb into his nest, putting his face and eyes in great jeopardy⁷⁸. Arming himself with a heavy club, the climber felled the gallant⁷⁹ bird to the ground and killed him. In the course of a few days the female had procured⁸⁰ another mate. But naturally enough the stepfather showed none of the spirit and pluck in defense of the brood that had been displayed by the original parent. When danger was nigh he was seen afar off, sailing around in placid⁸¹ unconcern.
 
It is generally known that when either the wild turkey or domestic turkey begins to lay, and afterwards to sit and rear the brood, she secludes⁸³ herself from the male, who then, very sensibly, herds⁸⁵ with others of his sex, and betakes himself to haunts of his own till male and female, old and young, meet again on common ground, late in the fall. But rob the sitting bird of her eggs, or destroy her tender young, and she immediately sets out in quest of a male, who is no laggard⁸⁶ when he hears her call. The same is true of ducks, and other aquatic⁸⁷ fowls. The propagating instinct is strong, and surmounts⁸⁸ all ordinary difficulties. No doubt the widowhood I had caused in the case of the woodpeckers was of short duration, and chance brought, or the widow drummed up, some forlorn male, who was not dismayed by the prospect¹⁶ of having a large family of half-grown birds on his hands at the outset.
 
I have seen a fine cock robin paying assiduous addresses to a female bird as late as the middle of July; and I have no doubt that his intentions were honorable. I watched the pair for half an hour. The hen, I took it, was in the market for the second time that season; but the cock, from his bright unfaded plumage, looked like a new arrival. The hen resented every advance of the male. In vain he strutted⁸⁹ around her and displayed his fine feathers; every now and then she would make at him in a most spiteful manner. He followed her to the ground, poured into her ear a fine, half-suppressed warble, offered her a worm, flew back to the tree again with a great spread of plumage, hopped⁹⁰ around her on the branches, chirruped, chattered⁹¹, flew gallantly⁹² at an intruder, and was back in an instant at her side. No use,—she cut him short at every turn.
 
The dénouement I cannot relate, as the artful bird, followed by her ardent⁹³ suitor, soon flew away beyond my sight. It may not be rash to conclude, however, that she held out no longer than was prudent⁹⁴.
 
On the whole, there seems to be a system of Women's Rights prevailing⁹⁵ among the birds, which contemplated⁹⁶ from the standpoint of the male, is quite admirable. In almost all cases of joint⁹⁷ interest, the female bird is the most active. She determines the site of the nest, and is usually the most absorbed in its construction. Generally, she is more vigilant in caring for the young, and manifests the most concern when danger threatens. Hour after hour I have seen the mother of a brood of blue grosbeaks pass from the nearest meadow to the tree that held her nest, with a cricket or grasshopper⁹⁸ in her bill, while her better-dressed half was singing serenely⁹⁹ on a distant tree or pursuing his pleasure amid the branches.
 
Yet among the majority of our song-birds the male is most conspicuous¹⁰⁰ both by his color and manners and by his song, and is to that extent a shield to the female. It is thought that the female is humbler clad for her better concealment during incubation. But this is not satisfactory, as in some cases she is relieved from time to time by the male. In the case of the domestic dove, for instance, promptly¹⁰¹ at midday the cock is found upon the nest. I should say that the dull or neutral tints¹⁰² of the female were a provision of nature for her greater safety at all times, as her life is far more precious to the species than that of the male. The indispensable office of the male reduces itself to little more than a moment of time, while that of his mate extends over days and weeks, if not months.[Footnote]
 
[Footnote] A recent English writer upon this subject presents an array of facts and considerations that do not support this view. He says that, with very few exceptions, it is the rule that, when both sexes are of strikingly gay and conspicuous colors, the nest is such as to conceal the sitting bird; while, whenever there is a striking contrast of colors, the male being gay and conspicuous, the female dull and obscure, the nest is open and sitting bird exposed to view. The exceptions to this rule among European birds appear to be very few. Among our own birds, the cuckoos and the blue jays build open nests, without presenting any noticeable difference in the coloring of the two sexes. The same is true of the pewees, the kingbird, and the sparrows, while the common bluebird, the oriole, and the orchard¹⁰³ starling afford examples the other way.
 
In migrating northward¹⁰⁴, the males have abandoned their nests, or rather chambers¹⁰⁵, which they do after the first season, their cousins, the nuthatches, chickadees, and brown creepers, fall heir to them. These birds, especially the creepers and nuthatches, have many of the habits of the Picidae, but lack their powers of bill, and so are unable to excavate¹⁰⁶ a nest for themselves. Their habitation, therefore, is always second-hand¹⁰⁷. But each species carries in some soft material of various kinds, or in other words, furnishes the tenement¹⁰⁸ to its liking¹⁰⁹. The chickadee arranges in the bottom of the cavity a little mat of a light felt-like substance, which looks as if is came from the hatter's, but which is probably the work of numerous worms or caterpillars¹¹⁰. On this soft lining¹¹¹ the female deposits six speckled eggs.
 
I recently discovered one of these nests in a most interesting situation. The tree containing it, a variety of wild cherry, stood upon the brink of the bald summit of a high mountain. Gray, timeworn rocks lay piled loosely about, or overtoppled the just visible byways of the red fox. The trees had a half-scared look, and that indescribable wildness which lurks¹¹² about the tops of all remote mountains possessed¹¹⁴ the place. Standing¹¹⁵ there, I looked down upon the back of the red-tailed hawk³⁷ as he flew out over the earth beneath me. Following him, my eye also took in farms and settlements and villages and other mountain ranges that grew blue in the distance.
 
The parent birds attracted my attention by appearing with food in their beaks, and by seeming much put out. Yet so wary¹¹⁶ were they of revealing the locality of their brood, or even of the precise tree that held them, that I lurked¹¹⁷ around over an hour without gaining a point on them. Finally a bright and curious boy who accompanied me secreted¹¹⁸ himself under a low, projected rock close to the tree in which we supposed the nest to be, while I moved off around the mountain-side. It was not long before the youth had their secret. The tree which was low and wide-branching, and overrun with lichens¹¹⁹, appeared at a cursory¹²⁰ glance to contain not one dry or decayed limb. Yet there was one a few feet long, in which, when my eyes were piloted thither¹²¹, I detected a small round orifice.
 
As my weight began to shake the branches, the consternation¹²² of both old and young was great. The stump¹²³ of a limb that held the nest was about three inches thick, and at the bottom of the tunnel was excavated¹²⁴ quite to the bark. With my thumb I broke the thin wall, and the young, which were full-fledged, looked out upon the world for the first time. Presently one of them, with a significant chirp⁴⁴, as much to say, "It is time we were out of this," began to climb up toward the proper entrance. Placing himself in the hole, he looked around without manifesting any surprise at the grand scene that lay spread out before him. He was taking his bearings, and determining how far he could trust the power of his untried wings to take him out of harm's way. After a moment's pause, with a loud chirrup, he launched out and made tolerable headway. The others rapidly followed. Each one, as it started upward, from a sudden impulse, contemptuously saluted¹²⁶ the abandoned nest with its excrement.
 
Though generally regular in their habits and instincts, yet the birds sometimes seem as whimsical and capricious as superior beings. One is not safe, for instance, in making any absolute assertion as to their place or mode of building. Ground-builders often get up into a bush, and tree-builders sometimes get upon the ground or into a tussock of grass. The song sparrow, which is a ground builder, has been known to build in the knothole of a fence rail; and a chimney swallow once got tired of soot¹²⁷ and smoke, and fastened its nest on a rafter in a hay barn. A friend tells me of a pair of barn swallow which, taking a fanciful turn, saddled their nest in the loop of a rope that was pendent from a peg¹²⁸ in the peak, and liked it so well that they repeated the experiment next year. I have know the social sparrow, or "hairbird" to build under a shed, in a tuft of hay that hung down, through the loose flooring, from the mow¹³⁰ above. It usually contents itself with half a dozen stalks of dry grass and a few long hair from a cow's tail loosely arranged on the branch of an apple-tree. The rough-winged swallow builds in the wall and in old stone-heaps, and I have seen the robin build in similar localities. Others have found its nest in old, abandoned wells. The house wren will build in anything that has an accessible cavity, from an old boot to a bombshell. A pair of them once persisted in building their nest in the top of a certain pump-tree, getting in through the opening above the handle. The pump being in daily use, the nest was destroyed more than a score of times. This jealous little wretch¹³¹ has the wise forethought, when the box in which he builds contains two compartments¹³², to fill up one of them, so as to avoid the risk of troublesome neighbors.
 
The less skillful builders sometimes depart from their usual habit, and take up with the abandoned nest of some other species. The blue jay now and then lays in an old crow's nest or cuckoo's nest. The crow blackbird, seized with a fit of indolence, drops its eggs in the cavity of a decayed branch. I heard of a cuckoo that dispossessed a robin of its nest; of another that set a blue jay adrift. Large, loose structures, like the nests of the osprey and certain of the herons, have been found with half a dozen nests of the blackbirds set in the outer edges, like so many parasites¹³³, or, as Audubon says, like the retainers about the rude court of a feudal¹³⁴ baron¹³⁵.
 
The same birds breeding in a southern climate construct far less elaborate nests than when breeding in a northern climate. Certain species of waterfowl, that abandon their eggs to the sand and the sun in the warmer zones, build a nest and sit in the usual way in Labrador. In Georgia, the Baltimore oriole places its nest upon the north side of the tree; in the Middle and Eastern States, it fixes it upon the south or east side, and makes it much thicker and warmer. I have seen one from the South that had some kind of coarse reed or sedge woven into it, giving it an open-work appearance, like a basket.
 
Very few species use the same material uniformly. I have seen the nest of the robin quite destitute¹³⁷ of mud. In one instance it was composed mainly of long black horse-hairs, arranged in a circular manner, with a lining of fine yellow grass; the whole presenting quite a novel appearance. In another case the nest was chiefly constructed of a species of rock moss.
 
The nest for the second brood during the same season is often a mere⁴³ makeshift. The haste of the female to deposit her eggs as the season advances seems very great, and the structure is apt to be prematurely¹³⁸ finished. I was recently reminded of this fact by happening, about the last of July, to meet with several nests of the wood or bush sparrow in a remote blackberry field. The nests with eggs were far less elaborate and compact than the earlier nests, from which t............