180 IN A COLORADO NOOK. 



olive, with golden suggestions on tail and body ; 

 but mamma, horrified that he has exposed him- 

 self to our gaze, hurries him away, and soon the 

 chorus of peeps and smacks — the yellow-bird 

 baby talk — grows more distant, and the whole 

 family of golden warblers is gone. It is re- 

 markable how much these little folk know about 

 our ways. If we walk through their territory 

 talking and laughing, the birds will continue 

 their own affairs, singing and calling, and carry- 

 ing on their domestic concerns as though we were 

 blind and deaf, as indeed most of us are to the 

 abundant life about us. But when they see us 

 quiet, looking at them, showing interest in their 

 ways, they recognize us at once as a suspicious 

 variety of the genus liomo^ who must be watched. 

 At once they are on guard ; they turn shy and 

 try to slip out behind a bush, or — if hampered 

 by an untrained family of little ones — attempt 

 to expostulate with us, or to drive us away. 



All this time you have perhaps been conscious 

 of a delicate little song, like the ringing of a 

 silver bell, over at the edge of our wild garden. 

 Now listen ; you will hear a rustle as of dead 

 leaves, a low utterance like a hoarse "mew," 

 then an instant's pause, and the bell song again. 

 Turn your glass toward the thick shrubbery, at 

 a point where you can see the ground at the 

 foot of the bushes. In a moment you catch a 



