THE OUTDOOR WORLD 



379 



A May Day Out-of-Doors. 



BY SARA V. PRUESKR, DEFIANCE, OHIO. 

 AUTHOR OF ''our DOORYARD FRIENDS." 



"If today a pagan wreath I wear," 

 don't blame me too much for a vaga- 

 bond am I, following the call of bird 

 through wood and field over hill and 

 river. And who would not on a May 

 day like this shun the narrow confines 

 of a room that seems but a prison cell 

 and slip out of the open door that pro- 

 vides an easy way of escape. So today, 

 I leave the world behind — the city's 

 clash and clatter, its roar and rumble, 

 and into the out-of-doors I go where 

 I find a place among the living things 

 of the universe. 



Everywhere in the great horizon, 

 the tender green touches the blue of 

 heaven and only where the habitation 

 of man has introduced his domicil does 

 one see any break in the blue-green col- 

 or line that forms the eye-boundary of 

 the landscape. 



Almost, I had lost the call in the 

 whirr of passing machines, when a field 

 lark sings his clear, whistled song — 

 three plaintive notes float from the 

 meadow beyond. Again, the world is 

 left behind and I push on to the cher- 

 ished goal — the country. 



A Baltimore oriole crosses my path, 

 then sings to the nice ear of his mate 

 from the maples that border the road- 

 side. And from the same trees float 

 the soft, liquid notes of a warbling vir- 

 eo. Wrens trill madly from post and 

 tree. 



TVie air is full of music. A bluebird 

 halts on an old stump, and warbles a 

 sweet "trua, la, la, la." In its blue 

 black, an exquisite bit of harmony is 

 seen with the blending of the violets 

 below and the blue sky overhead. The 

 male cowbirds utter their hoarse twit- 

 ters in the tall trees along the way. 

 They and the crows are blackest crea- 

 tures seen. Yet black stumps and char- 

 red tree trunks are seldom their rest- 

 ing places, but oftener do they sit in 

 the upper tree tops, where their creak- 



ing notes send a shudder through the 

 woodfolk. A pair of towhee buntings 

 is busily engaged in the thicket, 

 scratching away the last year's leaves 

 and probing about for insects. Song 

 sparrows trill their various roundelays 

 to every passer-by, and the field spar- 

 row sings its ditty over and over again. 

 Sweeter than all, is the vesper's simple 

 chant ; not too loud or too low, he sings 

 tenderly a few strains ; then drops 

 down among the sedges. The little 

 chipping sparrows flit about the low 

 bushes, and in one of them I find the 

 beginning of a hair-lined nest, hidden 

 away among the green leaves. Blue- 

 jays screech and scold in the trees and 

 the robins carol their love songs to 

 their responsive mates. Clear as a 

 flute, comes the call of the gray-crested 

 tit from the wood beyond. A cardinal 

 whistles a tune to his true love not 

 far away. Suddenly, a phoebe lights 

 on a bare, gray branch, singing its short 

 sweeping notes with a dash and vigor 

 that startles one with its action. A 

 red-headed woodpecker gives a loud 

 shriek as he flaps against a tree trunk 

 where he plants his colors, like those 

 of the German flag inverted — red, 

 white, and black In pleasing contrast, 

 to his shrieking calls are the contralto 

 notes of the white-breasted nuthatch, 

 as he climbs methodically up a tree ; 

 then uttering a low squeal he's ofT to 

 another one. The squall and mew of 

 the catbird takes me to the tangled 

 wayside growth, where I listen to bis 

 song — a spontaneous outburst of rich, 

 rolicking music. 



Above the andante and allegretto of 

 weaker notes, rises the strong passion- 

 ate medley of the brown thrasher. He 

 is a choir to himself, singing each part 

 with the skill of an artist. In the thick- 

 et of thorn bushes, is his brooding 

 mate. Not a sound escapes her as she 

 sits cautiously watching the intruder. 



The gate to the Avoods swings open, 

 and I enter. A cow-path leads to the 

 thicker growth and T follow it. Warb- 



