A QUARRELSOME PARTY. 331 
know no better word) of hummingbirds §sur- 
rounding the entire clump of Azbes. 
‘From flower to flower, where wild bees flew and sung, 
As countless, small, and musical as they 
Showers of bright hummingbirds came down, and plied 
The same ambrosial task with slender bill, 
Extracting honey hidden in those bells 
Whose richest blossoms grew pale beneath their blaze, 
Of twinkling winglets hov’ring o’er their petals, 
Brilliant as rain-drops when the western sun 
Sees his own miniature beams in each.’ 
Seating myself on a log, I watched this busy 
assemblage for some time. They were all male 
birds, and two species were plainly discernible. 
Chasing each other in sheer sport, with a rapidity 
of flight and intricacy of evolution impossible for 
the eye to follow—through the bushes, and over 
the water, everywhere—they darted about like 
meteors. Often meeting in mid-air, a furious 
battle would ensue; their tiny crests and throat- 
plumes erect and blazing, they were altogether 
pictures of the most violent passions. ‘Then one 
would perch himself on a dead spray, and 
leisurely smooth his ruffled feathers, to be sud- 
denly rushed at und assaulted by some quarrel- 
some comrade. Feeding, fighting, and frolicking 
seemed to occupy their entire time. 
