A sharp knock against the shop clapboards — I went outside — there under a blackberry spray of blossoms lay an OVENBIRD, the dainty pink feet that carried him so jauntily over the forest carpet already paling in this inexplicable death. He struck the solid wood, not the glass. What had happened in his tiny mechanism to drive him so suddenly into Azrael's arms? I held his inert olive form awhile, hoping he was only stunned. Was it the same bird that flung himself into yesterday's May twilight on flashing wings and trilled that wild song of utter joy under Eros' spur? Perhaps — but other Ovenbirds will sing the Spring moon up and call for teacher as in times before but this little fellow will know the joy of life no more — and nothing on earth seems happy as a bird. I put him into a niche beneath a bunch of hepatica with more than resentment against a power that could suddenly change this airy lighthearted atom into a tuft of lifeless feathers.

Here is your final nest,
Where you shall rest,
What have you found?

If the lady with blindfolded eyes and scales in her hand exists on the other side of the Styx, I am sure she will give the soul o' you the Nirvana a happy blameless life deserves!

Near Jamaica, Long Island, there was a bit of woodland where calls for teacher, teacher, TEACHER resounded for weeks in the Spring. There were at least thirty Ovenbirds living on that favored location and I spent hours trying to unearth their homes; fortunately for them, without success! I found only one nest and that because I fairly stepped on the sitting bird's tail. I actually believe they fooled me deliberately, for one bird I watched with part of a stem in its bill tucked it neatly under a leaf where there was no indication of a nest at all!