268 AN OWL SpE AD HOLIDAY. 
few of our birds have a more engaging song than 
his simple Trees, trees, murmuring trees, or if 
you choose to understand it so, Sleep, sleep, 
pretty one, sleep.4 
I saw little of the blue yellow-backed war- 
bler, but whenever I took the mountain path I 
was certain to hear his whimsical upward-run- 
ning song, broken off at the end with a smart 
snap. He seemed to have chosen the neighbor- 
hood of the fernery for his peculiar haunt, a 
piece of good taste quite in accord with his gen- 
eral character. Nothing could well be more 
beautiful than this bird’s plumage; and his 
nest, which is “ globular, with an entrance on 
one side,”’ is described as a wonder of elegance ; 
while in grace of movement not even the tit- 
mouse can surpass him. Strange that such an 
exquisite should have so fantastic a song. 
I have spoken of the rainy weather. There 
were times when the piazza was as far out-of- 
doors as it was expedient to venture. Buteven 
then I was not without excellent feathered 
society. Red-eyed vireos (one pair had their 
1 After all that has been said about the ‘‘ pathetic fallacy,’’ so 
called, it remains true that Nature speaks to us according to our 
mood. With all her ‘‘various language’’ she ‘‘cannot talk and 
find ears too.”” And soit happens that some, listening to the 
black-throated green warbler, have brought back a report of 
““ Cheese, cheese, a little more cheese.’ Prosaic and hungry 
souls! This voice out of the pine-trees was not for them. They 
have caught the rhythm but missed the poetry. 
