YELLOW WARBLER 



Thy duty, winged flame of Spring, 

 Is but to love and fly and sing. 



Lowell. 



AMONG the 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 

 250 



