Soon after a farmer told me of a strange nest, a curiously covered house with a low door, within which the sitting bird could be seen. The bird's flight as it left the nest first attracted his attention, just in time to prevent his foot from crushing through the roof. He had never heard of ovenbirds or of roofed-over nests, and was so interested in this new page of natural history that "once a day when he went for the cows he went round that way to see how things were getting on there." "Every time I went," he said, "I expected to find that the cattle had spoiled it!" After describing his interesting tenants he offered to share the pleasure of their acquaintance, saying most kindly, "I wouldn't mind leaving the hay field any time to take you there! I've done my share of haying, I guess; the boys don't want me to work so hard; come up to-morrow and I'll go with you!" I was there with to-morrow and was, if possible, more amazed at the adaptation of the "oven" to its surroundings than with the structure itself. The bird was sitting and not at all disposed to leave on our account; she merely drew in her pretty head, cuddled closer to the ground, and waited. Both house and tenant were so thoroughly blended in color with the environing leafage that, when pointed out, it was difficult for the eye to locate them. Possibly the brave little housekeeper divined the situation; or did she presume upon a previous acquaintance with the friendly farmer? The proprietor of the establishment, a little man-milliner with a bow of orange ribbon in his bonnet, sang through the fragrant morning as if glad of an opportunity of speaking to a gracious audience, interlarding his song with rushing over to his family--_vault_, I was going to say, for being sunken a bit in the ground and dark within, it suggested a mausoleum. A tiny ledge of slate, tilted vertically, made a strong wall upon one side of the small estate; young beeches, kept down by browsing cattle, grew where the rear-gates should have been, and a maple twig partially screened the entrance. Evergreen ferns crowded between the "oven" and the wall, their leaves interlaced, above the roof, with others opposite, the tips of two being caught down and interwoven with the roofing. The nest was made of dry leaves, lapped and overlapped, padded and felted in one compact arch--a veritable arch of triumph! Upon July 15th six creamy-white eggs, dotted with brown and lilac, lay safe within, these being duly replaced by a round half-dozen "little ovens," whose mouths were always open. Indeed, more food was shoved into those open-mouthed storehouses than would have supplied a village bakeshop, and still there was room for more. Warm rains soon gave the nest an unyielding texture; so matted and felted that the full weight of the hand left no impression, and I questioned whether the foot, set plumply down, would have crushed it out of shape entirely.