A FEATHERED CRY-BABY. 9 



The wood thrush, on the contrary, is patience 

 itself. A youngster of this lovely family sits a 

 half hour at a time motionless and silent on a 

 branch, head drawn down upon his shoulders, 

 apparently in the deepest meditation. When 

 he sees food coming he is gently agitated, rises 

 upon his weak legs, softly flutters his wings and 

 opens his mouth, but never — never cries. 

 Should one put a hand down to take him, as 

 seemingly could be done easily, he will slip out 

 from under it, drop to the ground, and disap- 

 pear, in perfect silence. 



The cry-baby of the bird world is the Balti- 

 more oriole. As soon as this fluffy young per- 

 son appears outside of his nursery, sometimes 

 even before, he begins to utter a strange almost 

 constant " chrr-r-r." He is not particularly 

 active of movement, but he cannot keep silent. 

 One little oriole mother whom I watched in 

 Massachusetts had no help in raising her brood, 

 her mate spending his time on the upper 

 branches of the tree. He could not be blamed, 

 however ; he was, so far as I could see, perfectly 

 willing to aid in the support of the family, but 

 Madam actually would not allow him even to 

 visit the homestead. When the young were 

 out he assumed his share of the labor. The 

 first yellow-haired bairn mounted the edge of 

 the nest one morning, and after a little stretch* 



