Finley tells of a nesting box in Oregon in which one hundred and ten BLUEBIRDS were raised to maturity in eight years, and states that notwithstanding such luck, Bluebirds were no more numerous than usual. Death tips and aims with lethal accuracy more arrows at her gentle children than at the ruff ones, perhaps intending thereby to impress the truth of "the meek inheriting the earth." They do! Just as much of it as their little bodies fill beneath the ground.

Male Bluebirds have long yielded the females their place in the sun. They are attentive and devoted husbands up to the working stage and no further. Applause, commendation and verbal encouragement aplenty. Material assistance? — None. He is A1 as an inspector, going into the nest after she has lugged in bits of lumber, and making a great powwow (pretending maybe it isn't laid just right). Then she goes in and rearranges it to his satisfaction. There she makes an ethical error (women please note) because yielding always makes a male more than ever captious!

With all the gentle mannerisms of the genus — Occidentalis was playing hookie when Pan distributed his flutes — They do not sing.