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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
21
Considering
how
rarely
we
see
the
cow-bird
in
our
walks,
her
merciless
ubiquity
is
astonishing.
It
occasionally
happens
that
almost
every
nest
I
meet
in
a
day's
walk
will
show
the
ominous
speckled
egg.
In
a
single
stroll
in
the
country
I
have
removed
eight
of
these
foreboding
tokens
of
misery.
Only
last
summer
I
discovered
the
nest
of
a
wood-sparrow
in
a
hazel-bush,
my
attention
being
attracted
thither
by
the
parent
bird
bearing
food
in
her
beak.
I
found
the
nest
occupied,
appropriated,
monopolized,
by
a
cow-bird
fledgling--a
great,
fat,
clamoring
lubber,
completely
filling
the
cavity
of
the
nest,
the
one
diminutive,
puny
remnant
of
the
sparrow's
offspring
being
jammed
against
the
side
of
the
nest,
and
a
skeleton
of
a
previous
victim
hanging
among
the
branches
below,
with
doubtless
others
lost
in
the
grass
somewhere
in
the
near
neighborhood,
where
they
had
been
removed
by
the
bereaved
mother.
The
ravenous
young
parasite,
though
not
half
grown,
was
yet
bigger
by
nearly
double
than
the
foster-mother.
What
a
monster
this!
The
"Black
Douglass"
of
the
bird
home;
a
blot
on
Nature's
page!
As
in
previous
instances,
observing
that
the
interloper
had
a
voice
fully
capable
of
making
his
wants
known,
I
gave
the
comfortable
little
beast
ample
room
to
spread
himself
on
the
ground,
and
let
the
lone
little
starveling
survivor
of
the
rightful
brood
have
his
cot
all
to
himself.
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