May-Day out of Town. 97 



climbing and somersaulting, over and above every 

 twig of every tree, that shows how absolutely tire- 

 less these birds are. Nor are they silent. Faint, 

 but not listless, melody ripples from their breasts, 

 whether in mid-air, seeking new hunting-grounds, 

 or busy with the food their sharp eyes have spied 

 out in the crannies of rough bark. Not all keep 

 to the tree-tops. There is one, the Maryland 

 yellow-throat, that loves the swampy ground, with 

 its rank growth of symplocarpus and arum, and 

 few finer song-birds have we than this, if we judge 

 bird music by its associations. 



It is hard to choose among them, but I hold in 

 high regard the bay-breasted warblers that come 

 and go with such delightful uncertainty. It was 

 not May-day, but nearly three weeks later, that I 

 chanced in these woods a year ago. It might well 

 have been called Warbler-day, so abundant were 

 these dainty birds. To watch them was bewilder- 

 ing, to single out any one well-nigh impossible. 

 As I stood by a group of four large tulip-trees, 

 that towered above the surrounding oaks, I heard 

 a merry twitter that sounded from above, and, 

 while clear and distinct, was distant. It came 

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