YELLOW WARBLER 
Thy duty, wingéd flame of Spring, 
Is but to love and fly and sing. 
LOWELL. 
MONG tthe tangled wild-blackberry 
vines that grew on the edge of the 
deep wood, a pair of yellow warblers made 
their pretty home. When I discovered it, 
there was just a bit of silver fibre all matted 
together and laid loosely in the parting of 
the branches. Early in the morning and 
late in the afternoon I watched it grow hour 
by hour, for during the middle of the day 
the little workers rested in the cool depth 
of the wood. Both brought strips of the 
outer skin of the same silvery weed that 
the orioles use in their dainty cradles, and 
scratched it into the required fineness in 
much the same way, with feet and bill. 
They were nervous, fidgety little house- 
keepers, entirely absorbed in their work, 
and so oblivious of my presence that one of 
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