loo Bird -Lore 



alarm note to the mother feeding her four spiny fledghngs on the window-shutter 

 nest. Then the Bluebird, perched on the top of the barn, sees the landlord and 

 calls to its mate. This call has not the "cheerie, cheerie" note that it had a while 

 ago. The birds have changed their song since they got down to hard work. But 

 when this brood is able to take care of itself, and the old birds resume their love- 

 making, the "cheerie," cheerful notes will take the place of the "we've toiled the 

 whole day long" tune. 



The Kingbirds, which persist in building in the eavespout, instead of on the 

 safe foundation provided by better foresight, stop their work and announce 

 to the neighbors that the landlord is out. The confiding little Chickadees, which 

 were driven by the Bluebirds from the box so carefully fashioned like a hollow 

 stump, occasionally return, and, looking over their first choice, seem to say that 

 they are sorry they took the old stump across the road for a nest. Below the house 

 the Chebecs are nesting in the elm tree, and, as the landlord approaches, one 

 calls to the other, "chebec, chebec, chebec"; then from the mate on the telephone 

 wire the answer quickly comes, ''quit, quit, quit," which probably does not mean 

 stop in the Chehecish tongue. 



The Hermit Thrush; the Voice of the Northern Woods 



By CORDELIA J. STANWOOD, Ellsworth. Maine 



IN the Canadian fauna, the Hermit Thrush, the most definite Thrush to study, 

 comes a month before the Olive-backed Thrush arrives, while the snow- 

 wraiths still linger in the shadowy forests, before the arbutus has begun its 

 subtle task of transmuting decaying earth molds into rough leaves, waxen petals, 

 and delicate perfume, and stands out against a background of well-nigh silent 

 woods. It tarries as long after its congener has departed. Again it is in the 

 foreground of a landscape, accented by dry rustling leaves and naked tree trunks, 

 with but few birds to rival it in our attention. 



WTien the Hermit Thrush makes its debut in the spring, its song is wonderfully 

 sweet, but it does not come into full possession of its voice until some time after 

 its arrival. In early August, it is still in full song. It was in the gloaming, August 

 4, 1909, that I stole upon one of the most ethereal demonstrations of the Hermit 

 Thrush I ever witnessed. My narrow footway lay through a stretch of evergreen 

 woods, interspersed with a few birches and poplars. The birds were perched at 

 different heights on the side of the woods illumined by the sinking sun, and 

 seemed to vie each with other in hymning its glories. Each burst of melody was 

 more indescribably perfect. Before the last cadence of one song died on the 

 air, a pure, serene exalted paean of praise burst forth from another golden 

 throat. The air palpitated with Thrush harmonies. I paused and passed on 

 unobserved in the quickly gathering shadows, my footsteps falling noiselessly 

 on pine leaf and moss-tuft. By August 14, the song is thin, suggesting the 



