Green, Greenish Gray, Olive, and Yellowish Olive Birds 



little brains can picture? Apparently it takes only the wish to be 

 in a place to transport one of these little fairies either from the 

 honeysuckle trellis to the canna bed or from Yucatan to the Hud- 

 son. It is easy to see how to will and to fly are allied in the 

 minds of the humming-birds, as they are in the Latin tongue. 

 One minute poised in midair, apparently motionless before a 

 flower while draining the nectar from its deep cup — though the 

 humming of its wings tells that it is suspended there by no magic 

 — the next instant it has flashed out of sight as if a fairy's wand 

 had made it suddenly invisible. Without seeing the hummer, it 

 might be, and often is, mistaken for a bee improving the "shin- 

 ing hour." 



At evening one often hears of a "humming-bird" going the 

 rounds of the garden, but at this hour it is usually the sphinx- 

 moth hovering above the flower-beds — the one other creature be- 

 sides the bee for which the bird is ever mistaken. The postures 

 and preferences of this beautiful large moth make the mistake a 

 very natural one. 



The ruby-throat is strangely fearless and unabashed. It will 

 dart among the vines on the veranda while the entire household 

 are assembled there, and add its hum to that of the conversation 

 in a most delightfully neighborly way. Once a glistening little 

 sprite, quite undaunted by the size of an audience that sat almost 

 breathless enjoying his beauty, thrust his bill into one calyx after 

 another on a long sprig of honeysuckle held in the hand. 



And yet, with all its friendliness — or is it simply fearlessness? 

 — the bird is a desperate duellist, and will longe his deadly blade 

 into the jewelled breast of an enemy at the slightest provocation 

 and quicker than thought. All the heat of his glowing throat 

 seems to be transferred to his head while the fight continues, 

 sometimes even to the death — a cruel, but marvellously beautiful 

 sight as the glistening birds dart and tumble about beyond the 

 range of peace-makers. 



High up in a tree, preferably one whose knots and lichen- 

 covered excrescences are calculated to help conceal the nest that 

 so cleverly imitates them, the mother humming-bird saddles her 

 exquisite cradle to a horizontal limb. She lines it with plant- 

 down, fluffy bits from cat-tails, and the fronds of fern, felting 

 the material into a circle that an elm-leaf amply roofs over. Out- 

 side, lichens or bits of bark blend the nest so harmoniously with 



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