sunshine, the air exhilarant and inspiring with freshness and fragrance, the woodsy odors of the tender new life but just awakened from the torpidity of frost-bound inanition, and the honeyed fragrance of the abundant apple blossoms inviting bird and bee and human flower lovers.

Evidently the birds were in sympathy with my mood, for there were literally flocks of them all about me; and the air was freighted with the enchanting melody of their rejoicing voices, Robert O’Lincoln as usual making himself delightfully prominent. I threw myself back upon the lap of Mother Earth and mentally rehearsed that characteristic bobolink poem:

Presently the soporific influence of the atmosphere and surroundings began to take effect; and, soothed by Nature’s lullaby, I fell asleep with Wadolincon, Bobolincon, Conquedle, Winterseble, all in a confused jumble in my brain.

Immediately my companions began a lively discussion about house-building. At first I could not make out even the subject of the conversation, for all were talking together in such determined I-will-have-my-say accents that they out-babeled Babel with the confusion of tongues and senseless racket.

Soon, however, came a diversion, a hawk flew screaming across the arena, and, in the lull that followed, Mrs. Crow seized the opportunity to mount the platform of a tall spruce and call the meeting to order, suggesting that as the subject under consideration was of common interest and importance, it would be more profitably discussed if each were allowed to speak separately.

I was grateful indeed for this timely suggestion of the sable intruder, for, being myself especially interested in the subject under debate, I was anxious for information, and knew that among so divers opinions one might expect new light upon it.

Mrs. Robin Redbreast came forward just then and opened the discussion by expressing her own choice of “use before beauty” and a dry and airy situation.

Mrs. Bluebird liked privacy and retirement from the public gaze, and declared that no place more conspicuous than a hollow post or stump is a fitting home for the bringing up of baby bluebirds.

Mrs. Sparrow, in modest apparel, showed her quiet taste in the matter of home-making as in dress, choosing a lowly nook in the pasture or upon the edge of some grass-fringed bank.

An equally secluded and unsuspected site, with the meadow grasses waving above and daisies and buttercups nodding in the breeze but telling no tales, is the select location of Mrs. O’Lincoln, and rarely indeed does Madam betray the secrets of her home.

“No position is so favorable for nesting purposes as a big knot upon a bridge sleeper,” tersely remarked Mrs. Pewee. “My sisters and I make a point of utilizing every bridge in our neighborhood, though we like nearly as well the eaves of a barn if only the Swallows would give us permission to build on their territory.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Vireo in a distressed tone. “Under a bridge. How plebeian to be sure! Why, how can the precious nestlings sleep in so much noise? I think a swinging cradle indispensable for my babies.”

“I, too,” chimed in Mrs. Oriole. “I have often watched Mrs. Pewee from our beautiful Elm Lodge and wondered how she could be happy with her home in such a constant jar.”

“Come, come,” interrupted Mrs. Crow at this point. “I hope no sarcasm is intended. Our taste is for a branch high up in some dark hemlocks, out of the reach of gunners and harum-scarum boys. We care more for quantity than quality, too, plenty of room but not too much luxury to make our children lazy in getting their own living.”

“That would never do us,” persisted Mrs. Vireo. “We hold that nothing is too good for the little ones, and early surroundings and influences are everything in cultivating a refined taste, a love for the beautiful, and the art of fanciful designing. You cannot find anyone who takes more pains than we in this respect.”

“O, we all know that the Vireos have plenty of time and means,” tartly responded Mrs. Catbird, in an unmistakably sarcastic tone. She, well aware of her own carelessness both in selection of site and manner of building, had not an advanced idea to offer; and, like certain humans, she therefore indulged in scoffing at her betters. “For my part,” she continued after a pause intended to be impressive, “I think that those who trust to luck a little more come out just as well in the end and have just as respectable and more independent children.”

“Yes, yes,” laughed Mrs. O’Lincoln, “if by ‘independent’ you mean lawless; and fine examples you could furnish us, too. No one will dispute you.”

“I like to see materials correspond with surroundings,” modestly suggested Mrs. Sparrow, and Mrs. Bluebird added: “If you have proper regard for privacy and modesty in the choice of a site you need give less attention to either materials or the style of your structure.”

Madam Cowbird now descended from a perch in the big birch balcony and summarily dismissed the assembly with this rough injunction: “Better be in better business, all of you! Work is better than talk and accomplishes more for the benefit of your neighbors. Theories are well enough, but let me see a practical demonstration of your various ideas. Finish your building and I will come around as critic and inspect your work. I’ll warrant that I shall find little to choose among you for all your fine talk.”

This characteristic speech filled me with such indignation that I resolved at once to expose the duplicity of the speaker, thus thwarting Madam’s wily plans for shirking her own duties.

Springing to my feet and gathering my forces for an energetic and scathing rebuke, I suddenly discovered that the whole company had dispersed, leaving me alone with the beauty and sweetness and quiet gladness of the old orchard.

Sara Elizabeth Graves.

THE CAROLINA CHICKADEE.
(Parus carolinensis.)

As one walks through the forest, either in winter when the snow is deep, or in summer when the sun is highest, the stillness will be broken from time to time by the merry “Chicka-dee-dee,” “day, day,” or “hey-de, hey-de,” coming from a little throat only a few feet away.

The Carolina Chickadee is very similar to the blackcapped chickadee with the exception that it has a decidedly shorter tail. Its range is also different, being seldom found north of a line extending from New Jersey, through central Indiana, west to Texas and Indian Territory. The blackcapped is seldom found south of this line.

The nest of this bird is a very cozy affair sheltered in a hollow snag or post. It often takes advantage of the deserted home of a downy woodpecker to make its nest. It also frequently excavates a cavity in some rotten snag or tree trunk. As soft wood is preferred one generally finds the nest in a willow snag. I found a nest of this interesting little bird in a rotten willow snag only a few feet from a small stream. The stump was so decayed that I could easily have pushed it over. The excavation had been recently done, because fresh bits of wood were scattered about the ground. Looking in at the hole, which was about four feet from the ground, I could easily see the nest and eggs in the cavity some ten inches below. Desiring to study it more closely and to obtain a photograph, I carefully pushed my knife through the soft trunk and pried off a large slab. This exposed the