308 BULLETIN 203, UNITED STATES NATIONAL MUSEUM 



1933. There are three records for Bermuda : May 7, 1878 ; February 

 1927; and May 1, 1928. A specimen was secured on the island of 

 Heligoland, Germany, on November 19, 1858. 



Egg dates. — Massachusetts: 26 records, May 21 to July 11; 15 

 records. May 30 to June 10, indicating the height of the season. 



New Brunswick: 13 records, June 13 to 28; 9 records, June 5 to 

 19. 



New York : 19 records. May 30 to July 16 ; 10 records, June 2 to 11. 



Nova Scotia: 13 records, June 7 to 28; 9 records, June 13 to 20 

 (Harris). 



DENDROICA VIRENS WAYNEI (Bangs) 

 WAYNE'S BLACK-THROATED GREEN WARBLER 



CONTBIBUTED BY AlEXANDEB SPRUNT, Jk. 

 HABITS 



It was a silent world, this great cypress swamp where I sought the 

 nest of the Wayne's black-throated green warbler in the company of 

 the man whose name it bears and who first made it known to science. 

 A vast flooded expanse of trees and water — colorful, eerie, and mys- 

 terious — it was a realm of gray-green gloom. Huge trunks towered 

 on all sides; long aisles of wine-dark mirror-smooth water stretched 

 inimitably away among the buttressed columns. The grayness that 

 predominated, from the furrowed knees and smoother trunks of the 

 great trees to the shrouds of moss festooned from their branches, was 

 relieved here and there by contrasting splotches of bright green over- 

 head where occasional shafts of brilliant sunlight penetrated the 

 canopy of feathery foliage. 



Our dugout made no sound as it slid along. Only the slight splash 

 of the paddle entering and leaving the water gave evidence of any 

 means of propulsion. Now and again the silence was broken by the 

 calls echoing down the flooded aisles — the clear whistle of the prothon- 

 otary warbler ringing sweetly, the full-voiced carol of the yellow- 

 throated warbler, the strident call of the pileated woodpecker an- 

 swered by tlie distant cry of a hunting red-shouldered hawk. Occa- 

 sionally the deep, resonant "whoo-aw" of a barred owl reverberated 

 solemnly among the cypresses, and once a sombre anhinga flapped 

 ahead of the dugout to plunge cleanly into the still water in full 

 career. 



But above these evidences of swamp life, above the swish of breaking 

 bass, the crashing splash of a disturbed alligator, the clamor of a 

 startled heron or ibis, sounded one persistent call from the high 

 branches — a song of seven notes, five on the same tone, one ascending, 

 the last descending. It was this call that drew us on, the song of the 



