(f2 Birds Every Child Should Know 



likes best to live ! And how quickly he hops from 

 twig to twig and flies from one cliimp of bushes 

 to another clump, in restless, warbler fashion, 

 as he leads you a dance in pursuit! Not for 

 a second does he stop watching you. 



If you come too close, a sharp pit-pit or chock 

 is snapped out by the excited bird, whose fa- 

 miliar, oft-repeated, sprightly, waltzing triplet 

 has been too freely translated, he thinks, into, 

 Fol-low-me, fol-low-me, fol-low-me. Pursuit is 

 the last thing he really desires, and of course he 

 issues no such invitation. What he actually 

 says almost always sounds to me like Witch- 

 ee-tee, witch-ee-tee, witch-ee-tee. You will surely 

 hear him if you listen in his marshy retreats. 

 He sings almost all summer. Except when 

 nesting he comes into the garden, picks minute 

 insects out of the blossoming shrubber}^, hops 

 about on the ground, visits the raspberry tangle, 

 and hides among the bushes along the roadside. 

 Only the yellow warbler, of all his numerous 

 tribe, is disposed to be more neighbourly. In 

 spite of his local name, he is to be found in winter 

 from Georgia to Labrador and Manitoba west- 

 ward to the Plains. You see he is something of 

 a traveller. 



The little bird w^ho bewitches him, and to 

 whom he sings the witch's song, wears no black 

 mask, so it is not easy to name her if her mate is 

 not about. Her plumage is duller than his and 



