But you may look until you are tired before you
find him in the high, dry wood, never near water.
In the driest parts of the wood, here the ground is thickly carpeted with dead
leaves, you may some day notice a little bunch of them, that look as if a
plant, in pushing its way up through the ground, had raised the leaves,
rootlets, and twigs a trifle.
Examine the spot more carefully, and on one side you find an opening, and
within the ball of earth, softly lined with grass, lie four or five
cream-white, speckled eggs. It is only by a happy accident that this nest of
the ovenbird is discovered. The concealment could not be better. It is this
peculiarity of nest construction -- in shape like a Dutch oven -- that has
given the bird what DeKay considers its "trivial name." Not far from the nest
the parent birds scratch about in the leaves like diminutive barnyard fowls,
for the grubs and insects hiding under them. But at the first suspicion of an
intruder their alarm becomes pitiful. Panic-stricken, they become fairly limp
with fear, and drooping her wings and tail, the mother-bird drags herself
hither and thither over the ground.
As utterly bewildered as his mate, the male darts, flies, and tumbles about
through the low branches, jerking and wagging his tail in nervous spasms until
you have beaten a double-quick retreat.
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