112 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



MEMORIES. 



I became vaguely aware of a breeze fanning my face — a breeze fra- 

 grant with a perfume indescribably sweet. Awakening with a start, I 

 glanced through the open window to see the apple trees laden with 

 their delicately pink-tinted blossoms. I was out under the trees in a 

 moment, literally drinking in the fresh scented air. And there were 

 others too who enjoyed the society of the apple blossoms, for busily 

 moving about among them were numerous little golden yellow sprites, 

 veritable little sunbeams, who in very ecstacy, exclaimed "sweet, 

 sweet, sweet, aint they sweet!" and I agreed heartily. These little 

 birds were the Yellow Warblers fresh from long sojourn in the South, 

 each little individual bringing with him a portion of that far away 

 land's sunshine. Small though they were they scattered it generously 

 everywhere, and the supply seemed in no danger of becoming exhaust- 

 ed. And so it was all the balmy days of spring. Wherever we went 

 we found them, busy as ever, and ever singing their little song, 

 "Sweet, sweet, sweet, oh so sweet!" 



^ :f: ^ ^ ^ 



It was late in the afternoon, I walked down the hill road stopping at 

 the bridge. Surrounding it were weeds, bushes, and shrubbery, a regu- 

 lar haven for birds. And birds there were, galore. Thrashers, Cardi- 

 nals, Chats, Phoebes, Yellowthroats, Dickcissels, Catbirds, Vireos and 

 Indigoes were all to be found there. I could not see the singer, but 

 ever and anon, I heard a familiar little song. "Sweet, sweet, sweet, 

 oh so sweet." Near me was a clump of densely leaved dogwoods. 



Suddenly a Blue-jay dropped apparently from the clouds, and disap- 

 peared hastily within them. Instantly there was a commotion. There 

 issued from the clump numerous short sharp commanding "Tsips," 

 and now and then I caught a glimpse of yellow, and I knew the Jay was 

 tresspassing on forbidden ground for that clump of dogwoods sheltered 

 the nest of the Yellow Warblers. And they didn't trust him. No bird 

 ever does. He is branded a murderer in all birddom and where ever 

 he goes he is met with angry potests. And he has earned bis reputa- 

 tion, for though in the autumn and spring he is the handsomest, bold- 

 est, loudest bird we have. When the nesting season comes around, he 

 assumes a hangdog sneaking air, rarely appearing in the open when he 

 can keep under cover, and never uttering a sound. He is the sneak 

 thief and scoundrel of the bird world, ever ready to strike when his 

 victim's back is turned, but never caring to meet him face to face. 



And such was the visitor our tiny Warblers had. Probably he had 

 no idea he was trespassing when he entered the clump, but the War- 



