270 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



The first member of the family to make 

 his appearance with me this spring was the 

 pine warbler. He was trilling in a pine 

 grove (his name is one of the few that fit) on 

 April 17. "The warblers are coming," he 

 said. Not so pronounced a beauty as many 

 of his tribe, he is one of the most welcome. 

 He braves the season, and with his lack of 

 distinguishing marks and his preference for 

 pine-tops, he offers an instructive deal of puz- 

 zlement to beginners in ornithology. His 

 song is simplicity itself, and, rightly or 

 wrongly, always impresses me as the coolest 

 of the cool. 



I stood the other day between a pine war- 

 bler and a thrasher. The thrasher sang 

 like one possessed. He might have been 

 crazy, beside himself with passion. Oper- 

 atic composers, aiming at something new 

 and brilliant in the way of a " mad scene," 

 should borrow a leaf out of the planting 

 bird's repertory. The house would " come 

 down," I could warrant. The pine warbler 

 sang as one hums a tune at his work. 

 Among birds, as among humans, it takes all 

 kinds to make a world. 



