114 IN BIRD LAND. 
One of my surprises was a warbler’s trill on the 
twelfth of August. ‘The little tantalizer kept itself 
so far up in the trees as to baffle all attempts at 
identification, but I am disposed to think it was a 
cerulean warbler. On the nineteenth of August two 
warbler trills, one of them, I feel almost sure, from 
the throat of the chestnut-sided warbler, were heard, 
which is all the more novel because these birds are 
not residents, but only migrants in this latitude. I 
should have felt amply repaid for all my efforts, had 
I proved nothing more than that warblers will some- 
times regale one with an aftermath of song in the 
dog days. 
The most persistent minstrel of the midsummer 
orchestra was the wood-pewee, — the only bird 
whose song I heard on every excursion to the woods 
during July and August ; and even when September 
came, there seemed to be little abatement in his 
musical industry. All the year round, the song- 
sparrow is the most prolific lyrist of my acquain- 
tance, but in midsummer he is distanced by his 
sylvan neighbor, the wood-pewee. During my walks 
on the twenty-ninth and thirty-first of August 
the pewee’s was the only song heard. 
Then, he does not confine himself wholly to 
his ordinary song, P%e-e-w-e-e or Lhe-e-e-0-7-e-e-e, 
for one day in July he twittered a quaint med- 
ley in a low, caressing tone, as if singing a lullaby 
to his nestlings. At first I could not tell what 
bird was the author of the new style of melody, but 
presently the song glided sweetly into the well-known 
