THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT. 



{Geothlypis trichas.) 



C. C. M. 



ONE of the first birds with which 

 we became acquainted was the 

 Maryland Yellow-thoat, not es- 

 pecially because of its beauty 

 but on account of its song, which at 

 once arrests attention. Wichity, zvichity, 

 wichity, wichity, it announces from some 

 thicket or bush where it makes its 

 home. It is one of the most active of 

 the warblers and is found throughout 

 the United States, Canada, and Nova 

 Scotia; in winter it migrates to the 

 South Atlantic and Gulf States and the 

 West Indies. 



The nest is not an easy one to find, 

 being built on the ground, under the 

 foo: of a bush or tussock of rank grass, 

 sometimes partly roofed over like the 

 oven bird's. The eggs are four or five, 

 rarely six in number, creamy-white, 

 speckled, chiefly at the larger end, with 

 reddish-brown, dark umber, and black; 



in some, occasional lines or scrawls ap- 

 pear. The average size is .6g x .52 

 inches. Oliver Davie says that the best 

 description of this bird's song was given 

 by Mr. Thomas M. Earl. One evening 

 in May, 1884, he was returning from a 

 day's hunt, and, after a rest on an old 

 log, he was about to start on his jour- 

 ney homeward. At this instant a little 

 yellow-throat mounted a small bush 

 and, in quick succession, said: Tackle 

 jnef tackle me! tackle nief The fact is, 

 the yellow-throat has several notes and 

 is rather noisy for so small a bird. It 

 is known by other names, as black- 

 masked ground warbler, black-spec- 

 tacled warbler, brier wren, and yellow 

 brier wren. 



The female is much duller in color 

 than the male, without black, gray, or 

 white on head. The young are some- 

 what like the adult female. 



BOB-O-LINK. 



GRANVILLE OSBORNE. 



Soaring high up in the bright blue sky, 

 Can't keep track of him if you try; 

 Flitting around in the pasture lot, 

 Likes to be friendly, rather than not; 

 Dancing along on the old rail fence, 

 Sunshine and flowers where the woods 



commence; 

 Got so he almost talks to me; 

 Head a-nodding, he says, says he — 

 "Bob-o-link, o-link, o-link." 



Clover and buttercups just seem to try 

 Coaxing him up in the meadow to fly; 

 Bees hunting honey keep buzzing 



around. 

 Seem to know best where the sweetest 



is found, 

 Almost forget when a-hearing him sing 



What kind of honey they all came to 



bring; 

 Pert and saucy as he can be. 

 Tail a-flitting, he says, says he — 

 "Bob-o-link, o-link, o-link." 



Wings jet black and glossy as silk, 

 Waistcoat a-gleaming as white as milk; 

 Dainty and slender, quicker than light. 

 First in the morning, last one at night, 

 Perched on the post of the barnyard 



gate. 

 Singing his sweetest to waken his mate; 

 Dressing his feathers and winking at 



me. 

 Mincing around, he says, says he — 

 "Bob-o-link, o-link, o-link." 



21s 



