170 THE WILES OF A WARBLER. 



weed and disappeared. A moment later I saw 

 the blue take flight a little farther oft", and soon 

 his song burst out, calm and sweet as though he 

 had never been surprised in his life. 



I walked slowly on up the road, for this was 

 one of the most enchanting spots in the woods, 

 to birds as well as to bird-lovers. Here the 

 cuckoo hid her brood till they could fly. In 

 this retired corner the tawny thrush built her 

 nest, and the hermit filled its aisles with music, 

 while on the trespass notices hung here, the yel- 

 low-bellied woodpecker drummed and signaled. 

 It was filled with interest and with pleasant 

 memories, and I lingered here for some time. 



Then as the road led me still farther away, I 

 turned back. Coming quietly, again I sur- 

 prised the blue family and was greeted in the 

 same manner as before. They had slipped back 

 in silence during my absence, and the young 

 blues were, doubtless, at that moment running 

 about under the weeds. 



Thus we found our warbler, the head of a 

 family, hard at work as any sparrow, feeding 

 a beloved, but somewhat scraggy looking, 

 youngster, the feeble likeness of himself. 

 There, too, we found the little brown mamma, 

 the same, as we suppose, whose nest-building 

 we had watched with so much interest. She 

 also had a youngster under her charge. But 



