, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some
reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning
color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle--the same relief
felt in descending from a mountain-top to the valley; in turning from the
sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving
over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys.

How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance.
"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I
peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket,
rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and
fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and
suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above
the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but
the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched
the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the
bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the
leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side.

Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the
little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the pond.
Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs
came a little green heron--the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of
elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off
with a rapid stroke up the creek.

As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the
rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be
credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch
of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern.

I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and
anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the
skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to
touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground,
clucking and growling at me.

It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there
was more of eggs than of nest--a great deal more. A few sticks had been
laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate
platform was literally covered by the five dirt