y was also made much larger than that of the first
nest.

After making away with the old nest, my conscience smote me. Perhaps the
little pocket makers were not through with it, even if it was on the
ground; so I brought a piece of it back and tied it with a grass stem to
a twig below the nest they were at work on, to save them as much
trouble as might be. When my bird came, her bright eyes were quick to
espy the old nest. She looked around, bewildered, as if wondering
whether she was really awake, and making sure that this strange looking
affair were not her second nest, come to grief in her absence. Being
reassured by her examination, she came back and hopped from twig to twig
inspecting the old piece of nest. At last she caught sight of a feather.
That, apparently, was just what she wanted. She quickly flew over,
pulled out the white plume, and went straight to the new house with it!

I was not able to watch any of my bush-tits through the season, that
year, but five years later, when again in southern California, to my
delight I found the tits building in almost the same tree where they had
been before.

One day an interesting brood was out in the brush, and I took notes on
their proceedings: "A family of young were abroad this morning filling
the leaves with their little moving forms, and the air with their
fledgling cry of _schrit_. As nearly as I could judge, there were ten in
the family--eight young tagging after two old birds. While I watched, a
droll thing happened, proving that a family of eight may affect a
parent's breakfast as well as his nerves. One of the family, which I
took to be the father bird, had some goody in his bill, and one of the
young, presumably, followed him for it, flying up on his twig. The old
bird turned his back upon the little one and went on shaking the grub.
Presently a second one flew down on the other side of him,--he was
between two fires; they touched him on both sides. I watched with
interest to see what he would do about it, and was much amused when he
opened his wings and flew up over their heads out of reach! Would he
come back to feed them after his food was properly prepared? No,--he sat
up on the branch and ate the morsel himself! I was rather shocked by
such a deliberate proceeding, but then it occurred to me that parent
birds have to take a bite themselves once in a while; though of course
their business is to feed the children!"

IX.

THE BIG SYCAMORE.