One of the fondest memories of my childhood is that of the chipping sparrows that nested every year among the orange rose-like flowers of the vine that grew on a trellis between the window and the door to the cow barn. This location was subject to considerable traffic, as both people and farm equipment passed within a few feet of it frequently. The nest was about 5 feet up in the vine, just high enough that my mother had to lift me up to see the greenish-blue eggs with their purple-black markings.
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