In the Heart of the Pines 



ling egg in the yellow-throat's nest during 

 the latter's temporary absence. 



The black-capped titmouse is still lisping 

 among the pines lisping much the same 

 modest little song that you might have 

 heard there in January and February, a 

 monotonous, but sweet, "day-day-day," with 

 an occasional vivacious variation, as if sud 

 denly waking from a revery or breaking 

 into bird-laughter "chick-a-dee-dee-dee- 

 dee." It is pleasant to find one of our na 

 tive songsters which not only stays with us 

 all the year round, but sings almost the 

 same song summer and winter. I, for one, 

 would rather have such modest optimism 

 all the time, in all weathers and through all 

 vicissitudes, than ecstatic rapture only when 

 the sun shines and the winds are soft and 

 balmy. Chickadee is the consistent Chris 

 tian among birds ; and if there is any bird- 

 hereafter, he will surely have his reward. 



Do you hear that far-off, throbbing, 

 drumming sound, that begins with three 

 or four slow, heavy beats, and then grad 

 ually increases in rapidity, until its stac 

 cato almost confuses the ear? That is the 



