Bulletin No. 27. 61 



July. So you see in July and part of August I have from sev^enty to 

 eighty-five birds flying around my trees and my neighbors'. These birds 

 get all their living on the wing, never going to the ground except to get 

 material to build their nests. Their whole living is on millers and flies, 

 and they are great feeders. They are on the wing nearly all the time 

 when it does not rain, and they are especially busy just before sunset, 

 when the caterpillar moths begin their work. These moths or millers 

 lay their eggs the last of July or August, just the time when these birds 

 are in best working condition and but very few winged insects escape 

 them. This is the cause of my not having any caterpillars in my 

 orchard, so I claim. 



These birds invariably leave for parts unknown from the i8th to the 

 22nd of August. They are great singers in their way, and commence 

 their songs about half past three in the morning. Perhaps some would 

 not like that at first as it would disturb their morning repose; then put 

 them further away in your orchard. 



Now I believe if every one that had an orchard would put up from one 

 to five martin houses among their trees they would rid them of cater- 

 pillars and many other insects that injure our apple trees. These houses 

 do not want to be gaudy but plain, paint lead color if painted at all, high 

 colors drive them away for a few years. 



If any one decides to try this they must set their poles (which should 

 be cedar), before the ground freezes and the house must be up before 

 the 20th of April. Some of my neighbors are going to try it next spring, 

 and I wish many others would. Why not have the air full of these 

 beautiful birds about our home? Give them a home and they will come. 



J. L. O. 



GENERAL NOTES. 



A Talented Catbird. — While walking along a hot, dusty road in the 

 Great Chester Valley about 2 p. m. on May 22nd, the subdued call of the 

 cock Quail issued from a shady grove extending to the roadside near 

 New Centerville. Peering over the rail fence, I was at first unable to 

 locate the sound, but presently espied the author — a Catbird close at 

 hand. Perched between and parallel with the rails, he called Bob-bob- 

 zvhite, bob-zvliite-bob, in a soft, dreamy whistle, seemingly rehearsing 

 a love song or singing for his own edification, as the female was not 

 present. After a few trials, he retired within the wood to scratch about 



