38 IN BIRD LAND. 
denly stopped, poised a moment airily, wheeled 
about, and plunged downward headlong with a 
swiftness that made my head swim, closing the de- 
scent with a series of bounds, as if he were going 
down an aerial stairway. Whether he performed 
this feat in pursuit of an insect, or to display his 
skill, or only to give vent to his exuberance of 
feeling, 1 am unable to say. 
The red-head has an odd way of taking a bath 
during a light shower, which he does by clinging 
lengthwise to an upright or oblique branch, fluffing 
up his plumes as much as possible, and then flapping 
nis wings slowly back and forth, thus allowing the 
refreshing drops thoroughly to percolate and rinse 
his handsome feathers. And, by the way, the subject 
of bird baths is one of no small degree of interest 
to the ogler of the feathered creation. It has been 
my good fortune to see a brilliant company of 
warblers of various species — lyrics in color, one 
might call them — performing their ablutions at a 
small pond in the woods. How their iridescent 
hues flashed and danced in the sunshine, as_ they 
dipped their dainty bosoms into the water, twinkled 
their wings, and fluttered their tails, sending the 
spray like pearl-mist into the air! One sylvan pic- 
ture like that is worth many a mile’s tramping. 
I once saw several myrtle warblers taking a dew- 
bath. Do you wonder how they did it? They 
leaped from a twig in the trees upon the dew-covered 
leaves, —it was early morning, — and fluttered about 
until their plumes were thoroughly drenched, then 
