RIFE WITH BIRDS. 157 
row’s nest! Often had I sought for one, but with- 
out success. For a long while my eyes followed the 
bird with the worm in her bill. Every now and then 
she would dart over into the grass as if to feed her 
bantlings, and I would mark the spot where she 
alighted ; but when I went to it no nest or bird- 
lings were to be found. Again and again I fairly 
trembled, thinking myself on the verge of a dis- 
covery, only to be balked completely in the end. 
But one victory was won; I got close enough to the 
bird to see distinctly with my glass the yellow mark- 
ings on the edge of the wings, —a characteristic I 
had never before been able to make out. Curiously 
enough, one wing of this bird was quite profusely 
tinged with yellow, while the yellow of the other 
could just be distinguished. 
Why should not a bird-student frankly chronicle 
his failures as well as his successes? During the 
day I encountered three birds that I was unable to 
identify, try as I would. One was singing lustily in 
some tall trees, and when at length I got my glass 
upon him he looked like a Carolina wren ; but that 
bird has been a familiar acquaintance for many years, 
— comparatively speaking, — and I have so often 
heard his varied roundels that they certainly are all 
known to me. Moreover, the quality of this mys- 
terious singer’s voice and the manner of his execu- 
tion were wholly different from those of the Carolina 
or any other wren of my acquaintance. The fol- 
lowing is a transcription of the song as near as it 
could be represented by letters: Che ha-p-e-e-1-r-r ! 
