The canary, the goldfinch, and chaffinch, are skilful cloth-weavers or felt makers; the latter, restless and suspicious, speckles the outside of her nest with a quantity of white lichen, so that it exactly imitates the tree branch on which it is placed, and can hardly be detected by the most accustomed eye. Glueing and felting play an important part in the work of the bird-weavers. The humming-bird, for instance, consolidates her little house with the gum of trees. The American starling sews the leaves together with her bill; other birds use not only their bills, but their feet. Having woven a cord, they fix it as a web with their feet, and insert the weft, as the weaver would throw his shuttle, with their bill. These are genuine weavers. In fine, their skill never fails them. The truth is, that the great Creator never gives any creature work to do without giving him at the same time an inclination to do it—which, in the animal, is instinct—and tools sufficient for the work, though they may be only the delicate feet and bill of the bird. And now, in conclusion, let me describe to you the nest of the little English long-tailed titmouse as I saw it many years ago, and which I give from “Sketches of Natural History”:— [Sidenote: _The Titmouse’s Nest._] There, where those boughs of blackthorn cross, Behold that oval ball of moss; Observe it near, all knit together, Moss, willow-down, and many a feather, And filled within, as you may see, As full of feathers as can be; Whence it is called by country folk, A fitting name, the feather-poke; But learned people, I have heard, _Parus caudatus_ call the bird. Yes, here’s a nest! a nest indeed, That doth all other nests exceed, Propped with the blackthorn twigs beneath, And festooned with a woodbine wreath! Look at it close, all knit together, Moss, willow-down, and many a feather; So soft, so light, so wrought with grace, So suited to this green-wood place, And spangled o’er, as with the intent Of giving fitting ornament, With silvery flakes of lichen bright, That shine like opals, dazzling white. Think only of the creature small, That wrought this soft and silvery ball, Without a tool to aid her skill, Nought but her little feet and bill— Without a pattern whence to trace This little roofed-in dwelling place— And does not in your bosom spring Love for this skilful little thing? See, there’s a window in the wall; Peep in, the house is not so small, But snug and cosy you shall see A very numerous family! Now count them: one, two, three, four, five— Nay, _sixteen_ merry things alive— Sixteen young, chirping things all sit, Where you, your wee hand, could not get!