RAMBLES ABOUT GEORGETOWN 205 



art of whining, the killdeer. Another warbler's trill 

 was heard in the thicket, but I was unable to identify 

 the singer that evening, for he kept himself conscien- 

 tiously hidden in the tanglewood. A few days later it 

 turned out to be one of the most beautiful feathered 

 midgets of the Rockies, Macgillivray*'s warbler, which 

 was seen in a number of places, usually on bushy slopes. 

 He and his mate often set up a great to-do by chirping 

 and flitting about, and I spent hours in trying to find 

 their nests, but with no other result than to wear out 

 my patience and rubber boots. I can recall no other 

 Colorado bird, either large or small, except the moun- 

 tain jay, that made so much ado about nothing, so far 

 as I could discover. But I love them still, on account 

 of the beauty of their plumage and the gentle rhythm 

 of their trills. 



The next morning, chilly as the weather was — and it 

 was cold enough to make one shiver even in bed — the 

 western robins opened the day's concert with a splendid 

 voluntary, waking me out of my slumbers and forcing 

 me out of doors for an early walk. No one but a syste- 

 matic ornithologist would be able to mark the difference 

 between the eastern and western types of robins, for 

 their manners, habits, and minstrelsy are alike, and their 

 markings, too, so far as ordinary observation goes. The 

 carolling of the two varieties is similar, so far as I could 

 discern — the same cherry ringing melody, their voices 



