THE WILDERNESS IN JUNE 245 



Were I asked what woodland dweller seen 

 during my stay here seems happiest, I should 

 name the male White-throat. Perched on the 

 topmost twig of a fir, the lower branches of 

 which shelter his mate as she patiently sits on the 

 five bluish-white, brown-speckled eggs, he seems 

 the very embodiment of earthly bliss. His abid- 

 ing faith in the happy outcome of his mate's 

 tender care has given a full rich tone to his song 

 that is quite a surprise to me. Much as I have 

 admired the plaintively sweet song of this bird 

 during migration, I was quite unprepared for 

 this delicious performance of the nesting season. 

 So sweetly confiding and trustful are his notes 

 that one feels them the frank expression of the 

 deepest sentiments of the heart. To my mind 

 there are few sweeter utterances in all bird land 

 than the nuptial song of the White-throat. 



They are all about the clearing and along the 

 trails where bordered with fir and spruce. 

 Their call notes, the metallic ^^chink^' and a 

 shrill ^^pit^^ are very familiar sounds as I move 

 about, but they show no sign of fear, often per- 

 mitting me to pass within arm's length of them. 

 They are among the most admired and lovable 

 members of the wilderness chorus. 



But even in this paradise of song all sounds 

 do not express harmony. In truth there is one 

 discordant operator in a coat of shiny black, a 

 color in which, as you have noted, are clad 

 many of the mischief-makers of the bird world. 

 Soon after my arrival there were heard in the 

 alders bordering the outlet to First Pond, reedy 

 call notes and a poor imitation of the ringing 



