268 AN OWDS HEAD HOLIDAY. 



few of our birds have a more engaging song than 

 his simple Trees, trees, murmuring trees, or if 

 you choose to understand it so, Sleep, sleep, 

 pretty one, sleep. 1 



I saw little of the blue yellow-backed war- 

 bler, but whenever I took the mountain path I 

 was certain to hear his whimsical upward-run- 

 ning song, broken off at the end with a smart 

 snap. He seemed to have chosen the neighbor- 

 hood of the fernery for his peculiar haunt, a 

 piece of good taste quite in accord with his gen- 

 eral character. Nothing could well be more 

 beautiful than this bird's plumage ; and his 

 nest, which is " globular, with an entrance on 

 one side," is described as a wonder of elegance ; 

 while in grace of movement not even the tit- 

 mouse can surpass him. Strange that such an 

 exquisite should have so fantastic a song. 



I have spoken of the rainy weather. There 

 were times when the piazza was as far out-of- 

 doors as it was expedient to venture. But even 

 then I was not without excellent feathered 

 society. Red-eyed vireos (one pair had their 



i After all that has been said about the "pathetic fallacy," so 

 called, it remains true that Nature speaks to us according to our 

 mood. With all her " various language " she "cannot talk and 

 find ears too." And so it happens that some, listening to the 

 black-throated green warbler, have brought back a report of 

 " Cheese, cheese, a little more cheese." Prosaic and hungry 

 souls ! This voice out of the pine-trees was not for them. They 

 have caught the rhythm but missed the poetry. 



