IN SIGHT OF SHASTA 



feast of cotfee-berries while the little wife is leading forth the 

 fledglings, calling them with that mild, persuasive whistle, ca- 

 Tvie-yoUt ca-Tpfe -pou, which is so often on the midsummer 

 breeze. 



Now my attention is drawn to a fine high note in the 

 shrubbery — tTvee-trvee-twee-tTvee-trvee'-cha^ and an investiga- 

 tion reveals the presence of the restless black-throated gray 

 warbler, ever alert in its insect hunt amid the shadowy tangles 

 of foliage. This dainty little bird is clad in quaker gray, 

 handsomely relieved by the black head and mask, interrupted 

 by two stripes of white, one running back of the eye, the other 

 bordering the throat and turning up around the ear. Its breast 

 is white, streaked with black on the sides, and the wings and 

 tail are marked with white patches. Two spots of clear yel- 

 low just back of the upper mandible are the only touches of 

 bright color upon this trim little warbler. 



Penetrating the dogwood and hazel thickets to the mar- 

 gin of the stream I spy that matchless elf of the mountain tor- 

 rents, the water-ouzel, stone-colored like the gray water- worn 

 rocks amidst which he disports. Even his chattering call has 

 a stony ring, like the rapid striking of two pebbles. Sitting 

 upon his rocky perch, with a sudden jerk he nervously ducks 

 his body as if dodging a blow. In a flash, seized by some imp- 

 ish freak, he plunges into the water just where the torrent 

 is wildest. He disappears from sight and is gone so long that 

 it seems as if he must surely drown ; but no, there he pops out 

 as serenely as if nothing unusual had occurred, and without 

 even so much as a shake of his unruffled plumes, springs upon 

 a half-submerged stone and again pokes his head into the 

 stream in quest of food. The spirit of the mountain torrents 



[121] 



