In New England the Black-Cap is one of our most common and familiar birds. In the vicinity of Calais, Mr. Boardman speaks of it as resident and abundant. The writer did not meet with it in Nova Scotia, nor even in the islands of the Bay of Fundy, where the _hudsonicus_ is a common bird. It is a resident species, nesting early in May, and having full-fledged nestlings early in June. While it seems to prefer the edges of woods as best affording the means of food and shelter, it by no means confines itself to these localities, not only appearing familiarly around the dwellings in the winter season, but also occasionally breeding in open and exposed places. A hollow post of a fence in the midst of open cultivated fields, a decayed stump near the side of a public highway, a hollow log in a frequented farmyard, and even the side of an inhabited dwelling, are localities these birds have been known to select in which to rear their young. In the winter they not unfrequently extend their visits, in search of food, into the very heart of large and crowded cities, where they seem as much at home and as free from alarm as in the seclusion of the forest, searching every crack where insect larvæ or eggs can be hid. On one occasion a pair had built its nest over a covered well which connects with the dwelling by a side door, through which water was drawn at all hours of the day by means of buckets and a rope, the wheel for which was in close proximity to their nest. They manifested, however, no uneasiness, and even after the young were ready to fly, the whole family would return to the place for shelter at night and during inclement weather. Their courage and devotion to their young is a remarkable trait with the whole race, and with none more than with the present species. On one occasion a Black-Cap was seen to fly into a rotten stump near the roadside in Brookline. The stump was so much decayed that its top was readily broken off and the nest exposed. The mother refused to leave until forcibly taken off by the hand, and twice returned to the nest when thus removed, and it was only by holding her in the hand that an opportunity was given to ascertain there were seven young birds in her nest. She made no complaints, uttered no outcries, but resolutely and devotedly thrust herself between her nestlings and the seeming danger. When released she immediately flew back to them, covered them under her sheltering wings, and looked up in the face of her tormentors with a quiet and resolute courage that could not be surpassed.