Return of the Birds 



By Melicent Eno Humason 



Early morning and early May — that is the time to study the birds, before the 

 foliage is mature and offers leafy coverts to the shade-loving songsters. 



I know where lies the bed of an old canal, its ridges topped by the spicy 

 sprays of the white pine, and there it is a joy to come, in the warm spring days, 

 and worship in the sun-stained aisle. 



The birds, from the little vestured fellows to the pompous choristers, keep 

 their matin hymns well in progress until the heat of noon, when only a few solos 

 and occasional duets may be heard. 



The big, sleepy, Rose-Breasted Grosbeak sits quietly on a bough, watching 

 the motions of the others, and apparently directing their songs. 



A little black and white creeping warbler sidles around the trunk of a red 

 cedar, darts recklessly across the path — almost poking his fearless feathers into 

 my eyes — and clings to another trunk, lisping his slippery notes meanwhile. 



"Weachy, weachy, weachy, weachy, weachy !"' shrills the oven bird from a 

 tall-treed copse close by — "weachy, weachy, weachy" — nearer, strident and sharp, 

 grating as a violin note which has slipped ofif its key from sheer exuberance. 



Now for a few seconds, all is silent, until I hear a faint stirring among the 

 pine-needles, where, scarcely distinguishable from the dull earth tones of olive 

 green and tawny-brown, a couple of these birds have lighted, and are strutting 

 haughtily about like pouter pigeons, until one daintily flits to the topmost branch 

 of a sapling, and lifting up his head, canary- wise, utters his piercing song. 



Two shrieking blue jays, flaunting their brilliant plumage against the duller 

 blue of the sky, whirr far above my head, seeking the tallest pines, while the tiny 

 bay-breasted warbler plays "ring-around-a-rosy" all by himself in the feathery 

 shad bush close at hand. 



A sharp scratching and pecking issues from the dry, withered leaves under 

 an old oak, and I curiously wonder if a white hen with a brood of chicks has wan- 

 dered far, far from home ; but instead of the customary "cluck, cluck," mingled 

 with the piping chirp of the youngsters, a good-natured "to-we" accompanies the 

 rumpus, and to my surprise Herr Chewink and his dowdy frau are getting their 

 dinner with the energy of a whole barnyard. 



The sudden hush in the woods, and the overhanging sun, assures me that noon 

 has come, so reclining on a fragrant couch of pine needles, I bring forth my bottle 

 of cofifee and my egg sandwich, and proceed to enjoy my noontide repast. 



As I leisurely survey the opposite bank of the one-time canal, Herr Chewink, 

 resigning his post as butler, and leaving the drudgery of domestic affairs to his 

 wife, flutters to the leafless bough of a scrub-oak, and offers me a musical treat. 



trill) is indeed the only number on his program, but it is so friendly, so 



confident, so sweet that I listen in perfect delight, fain to applaud, but knowing 

 the outcome of such noisy approval. 



782 



