The song sparrow was attune, an orchard oriole piped to us from a maple at the 

 doorstep, and a brown thrasher was singing somewhere in the wet thicket beyond 

 the boat-houses. The robins were silent. I went directly to the scene of the dis- 

 turbance of the night before, and soon found Master Robin perched on a fence 

 post with a big, fat worm in his mouth. It is barely possible that he had worn 

 his voice out the night before, or more likely, he was afraid he would drop the 

 worm, else he would have scolded me and perhaps sworn a little. I fully ex- 

 pected to find nothing less than a rifled robin household. The duet of the night 

 before could hardly be accounted for on less tragic grounds. I soon discovered, 

 however, that neither black-snake nor small boy robber had been about, for the 

 robin, after looking me over for a minute, flew to a crotch low down in a maple 

 across the inlet, and dividing his worm prize into bits, fed some concealed young. 

 I went to the tree and climbing a few feet looked into the nest. There were four 

 naked yotmg ones within. They were certainly not more than eight or ten hours 

 old. It is my firm conviction that the racket that the father and mother birds 

 made the night before was their method of rejoicing that unto them several chil- 

 dren were born. 



The bird-lover's best time abroad is usually before breakfast. We walked 

 that morning along the edge of the swamp and listened to the "fluting" of the 

 redwings. In a little clump of trees, whose foliage was nearly full, we found the 

 redstarts and the yellow warblers. There were other warblers in their company, 

 but they gave us only a fleeting glimpse, and though we followed through the 

 tangled thickets as they went from tree to tree, we had to give them u]) in 

 despair. Warbler time is the time to try the bird-lover's soul. The elusive 

 creatures invariably give the observer a crook in the back, and not infrequently 

 give him a crook in the temper. A pair of doves flew by. We had heard their 

 notes ever since we had left the house. There is something more than mournful 

 in the dove's note. To me there is something that the children call "creepy" in the 

 sound. Doves are abundant throughout the Middle Western country, but how 

 long they will continue so is a question. Our wise legislators in many states 

 have been putting these birds on the game list so that they may be shot and turned 

 over to the cook. Before long the wise ones will be planning an open season for 

 humming-birds and kinglets. 



The doves were out of sight, but hardly out of mind, when my companion 

 caught sight of a male bluebird sitting on a stump about fortv vards away. The 

 stump had holes in it, any one of which looked like an ideal place for a bluebird's 

 nest. Presently the female bluebird appeared. She took a perch by the side of 

 her husband. "In truth," we said, "the birds have a nest in the stump." Then 

 we looked at them through our glasses and became more firmly convinced than 

 ever that the nest was just below them, for the glass revealed the fact that Mrs. 

 Bluebird had a fat grub in her bill. Soon, however, she left her perch and flew 

 to a tree about twenty yards to our left. We said to ourselves, "Mrs. Bluebird 

 saw us looking at the stump and so she has left it for another place in order to 



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