lining-stuff on which to lay her eggs. I had been fetching and carrying all day the lichens to put round the nest, which was hidden among the thick leaves on the bough of a tree, and was resting by the side of it.

Pewee! Pewee! Peer!

“She will hear that,” thought I, and again I sang it as loud as I could.

“I’ll bring that fellow down, too,” said a boy, who surely had never heard anything about our happy, innocent lives, and as I peered down at him, he flung a large stone, which struck the bough on which I sat. Oh, how frightened I was, and how quickly I flew away!

“He has killed my little mate,” I thought. Still, I called in my plaintive way, Pewee! Pewee! Peer!

A faint, low cry led me to the foot of a large tree, and there on the ground lay my mate, struggling to rise and fly to me.

“I think my wing is broken,” she sobbed. “Oh, that wicked, wicked boy!”

I petted her with my broad, flat beak, and after a while she was able to fly with me to our nest; but it was days and days before she was out of pain. I am sure if that boy sees my story in Birds, he will never give such an innocent little creature misery again.

I dress plainly, in a coat of olive and brown, and they do say my manners are stiff and abrupt.

But my voice is very sweet, and there is something about it which makes people say: “Dear little bird, sad little bird! what may your name be?”

Then I answer:

Pewee! Pewee! Peer!

THE WOOD PEWEE.

LTHOUGH one of the most abundant species, common all over the United States, the retiring habits, plainness of dress, and quiet manners of this little bird have caused it to be comparatively little known. Dr. Brewer says that if noticed at all, it is generally confounded with the common Pewee, or Phoebe bird, though a little observation is sufficient to show how very distinct they are. The Wood Pewee will sit almost motionless for many minutes in an erect position, on some dead twig or other prominent perch, patiently watching for its insect prey. While its position is apparently so fixed, however, its eyes are constantly on the alert, and close watching will show that the bird now and then turns its head as its glance follows the course of some distant insect, while anon the feathers of the crown are raised, so as to form a sort of blunt pyramidal crest. This sentinel-like attitude of the Wood Pewee is in marked contrast to the restless motion of the Phoebe, who, even if perched, keeps its tail constantly in motion, while the bird itself seldom remains long in a fixed position. The notes of the two species (see August Birds) are as different as their habits, those of the Wood Pewee being peculiarly plaintive—a sort of wailing pe-e-e-e-i, wee, the first syllable emphasized and long drawn out, and the tone, a clear, plaintive, wiry whistle, strikingly different from the cheerful, emphatic notes of the true Pewee.

The Wood Pewee, like all of its family, is an expert catcher of insects, even the most minute, and has a remarkably quick perception of their near presence, even when the light of day has nearly gone and in the deep gloom of the thick woods. Dr. Brewer describes it as taking its station at the end of a low dead limb, from which it darts out in quest of insects, sometimes for a single individual, which it seizes with a sharp snap of its bill; and, frequently meeting insect after insect, it keeps up a constant snapping sound as it passes on, and finally returns to its post to resume its watch. While watching it occasionally twitters, with a quivering movement of the head and tail, uttering a feeble call-note, sounding like pee-e.

The nest of the Wood Pewee, which is always “saddled” and securely attached to a rather stout branch, usually lichen-covered, is said to be one of the most elegant examples of bird architecture. From beneath it so much resembles a natural portion of the limb, but for its betrayal by the owner, it would seldom be discovered. It is saucer-shaped, with thick walls, and the whole exterior is a beautiful “mosaic” of green, gray, and glaucous lichen. The eggs are a rich delicate cream color, ornamented by a “wreath” round the larger end of madder-brown, purple, and lilac spots.

The Wood Pewee has many admirers, a more interesting creature to watch while feeding being hard to imagine. Often you will find him in the parks. Sitting in some quiet, shady spot, if you wait, he will soon show himself as he darts from the fence post not far away, to return to it time after time with, possibly, the very insect that has been buzzing about your face and made you miserable. His movements are so quick that even the fly cannot elude him.

And to some he is pleasant as a companion. One who loves birds once saw this Flycatcher flying in a circle and repeating breathlessly his emphatic chebec. “He sang on the wing, and I have never heard notes which seemed more expressive of happiness.”

snow bunting.
From col. F. M. Woodruff. Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

THE SNOWFLAKE.

Bobbie didn’t want to go to school that morning, and he looked very cheerfully out upon the cloudy sky and falling flakes of snow, pretending to shiver a little when the angry gusts of wind blew the snow sharply into people’s faces.

“I guess it’s better for little boys like me to stay at home in such weather as this, mamma,” said he, all the while hoping the snow would soon be deep enough for him to ride down the hill on his sled.

Before his mamma could reply Bobbie gave a cry of delight which drew her at once to the window.

As from the snow clouds, on bold and rapid wing, came whirling down an immense flock of birds, white, streaked with gray and brown, chirping, calling to one another, the whole flock settling upon the open places in a field in front of Bobbie’s house.

“Oh, the dear little things,” said Bobbie, “they looked like little white angels dropping out of the clouds.”

“Those are our winter neighbors,” said his mamma, “the Snow Buntings or Snowflakes—they visit us only in winter, their summer homes being away up North near the Arctic Circle in the region of perpetual snow.”

“Do they build their nests in trees?” asked Bobbie, who never tired hearing about the birds.

“There are no trees in that bleak region, only scrubby bushes,” was the answer. “They build a thick, deep grassy nest, well lined with rabbit fur, or Snow Owl feathers, which they tuck under a ledge of rock or bunch of grass.”

“They chirrup just like sparrows,” reflected Bobbie, “can they sing?”

“They only sing when up in their Northern home. There a male Snowflake will sing as merrily as his cousin the Goldfinch.”

“They look like Sparrows, too,” said Bobbie, “only whiter and softer, I think.”

“In the summer they are nearly all white, the brown edges having worn away, leaving them pure black and white. They are very shy and suspicious, and at the least sound you will see them all whirl aloft braving the blasts of winter like little