Why our little brothers in feathers are so much more boisterous than elsewhere,
"Up in the parks and the mesas wide,
Under the blue of the bluest sky,"
has not, so far as I know, been discovered.
Whether it be the result of habitual opposition to the strong winds which, during the season of song, sweep over the plains every day, or whether the exhilaration of the mountain air be the cause—who can tell?
IV.
THE TRAGEDY OF A NEST.
Near to the Camp, a little closer to beautiful Cheyenne Mountain, lay a small park. It was a continuation of the grove, through which the brook came roaring and tumbling down from the cañons above, and, being several miles from the town, it had never become a popular resort. A few winding paths, and a rude bench here and there, were the only signs of man's interference with its native wildness; it was practically abandoned to the birds—and me.