So About the Feathered Folk. 



Do you know the little White- 

 throat the gay little migrant that 

 comes to us in May ? He is 

 certainly no great songster, but he 

 "fancies himself" immensely; and 

 his failures are the most entertaining 

 things in the world ! 



All day long, \vhen his mate is 

 brooding over their nest in the 

 thorn-bush, he may be seen perched 

 on the outermost twigs, and with 

 crest erect and puffed-out throat, 

 keeping up a harsh chattering by 

 way of a song. Now and then he 

 starts ambitiously into the air, and 

 tries to rival the Finches, who are 

 gay about him ; their clear notes 

 seem to sting him to aggravation. 

 He, too, will sing ! Up he flies, 

 screeching as though his tiny throat 

 must burst. 



But it is no use. Suddenly he 

 becomes aware that mere noise is 

 not music, and he comes whirling 

 back to the very twig whence he 



