Birds and Seasons in My Garden 73 



years a mass of the bridal wreath spirea, so that its upright slioots from creep- 

 ing rootstocks have formed a stockade about the original bushes, making a 

 cat-, dog-, and bird student-proo( retreat which my Thrashers recognize. It is 

 what Mr. Ellwanger calls the Hungarian Czardas of the Catbird that announ- 

 ces his arrival. It mingles with my dreams before I am really awake, and 

 comes from the dapper, black-capped fellow who is in one of three places, — - 

 either on the pointed top of a clothes-pole, the wire clothes-line, or in the tall 

 syringa bushes that are just breaking into leaf. His syringas, I should say, 

 for to his family and ancestors they have belonged three-score of years, 

 and we are always very careful, when we gather the flowers, not to bend or 

 shake the boughs. 



The Wood Thrush, though quite at home within garden bounds, begins 

 his annual intimacy with a gentle reserve. The first song will, perhaps, come 

 from the great white oak that overhangs the pool, and the singer remain 

 there for several days before coming to the lawn. There another joins him, 

 and yet another, until, last season, we had a Wood Thrush quartet that lasted 

 mitil late July, entrancing us all, and bringing many guests to listen and 

 be thrilled. 



It is hard indeed for a female gardener, who not only tries to cherish the 

 things rooted in the ground, but also the birds nesting in the branches, to keep 

 sane and sound in the month of May. I've heard people wish that May 

 could be two months long, and March be blotted out, to supply the needed 

 days, but, for one, I doubt if I could stand the strain and rush of it. Yet, 

 perhaps, if the time were not so brief the tension would be less, for, as it is, 

 one is inchned to try to keep one's eyes literally pried open lest some winged 

 rarity should have passed unseen. 



About the second week in May comes my time of keenest suspense. Will 

 the migrant Warbler horde visit me, or "pass by on the other side" of the 

 river woods? — a belt that seems to have at times a local etTect upon the 

 migration. 



There comes a dark morning, the clouds do not disperse, and by noon a 

 steady rain falls, toward evening the wind rises, and we draw the curtains 

 close, put e.xtra logs upon the hearth-fire and, picking up books or work, draw 

 toward the lamps with the comfortable calm of autumn evenings. Mean- 

 while, the lighthouse at the bar end, two miles away, gives the warning news 

 of fog, as well. The next day the rain continues, and only the vigorous Robins 

 are much in evidence, keeping up their endless tug-of-war with the earth- 

 worms on the lawn. The second night the wind drops, the rain lessens, 

 and once in a time a break of light shows that the moon is wrestling with the 

 clouds. The air is full of mysterious sounds, — a Heron quoks, a single Whip- 

 poorwill cries — a bird that is a stranger here, east of the river and hill woods; 

 a keen ear can hear numerous small birds shifting uneasily in the dripping 

 trees. 



