112 WAKE-ROBIN 



fledged, was placed upon the ground, at the foot 

 of the stump, and in such a position that the color 

 of the young harmonized perfectly with the bits of 

 bark, sticks, etc., lying about. My eye rested upon 

 them for the second time before I made them out. 

 They hugged the nest very closely, but as I put 

 down my hand they all scampered off with loud 

 cries for help, which caused the parent birds to 

 place themselves almost within my reach. The 

 nest was merely a little dry grass arranged in a 

 thick bed of dry leaves. 



This was amid a thick undergrowth. Moving on 

 into a passage of large stately hemlocks, with only 

 here and there a small beech or maple rising up 

 into the perennial twilight, I paused to make out 

 a note which was entirely new to me. It is still 

 in my ear. Though unmistakably a bird note, it 

 yet suggested the bleating of a tiny lambkin. 

 Presently the birds appeared, a pair of the soli- 

 tary vireo. They came flitting from point to point, 

 alighting only for a moment at a time, the male 

 silent, but the female uttering this strange, tender 

 note. It was a rendering into some new sylvan 

 dialect of the human sentiment of maidenly love. 

 It was really pathetic in its sweetness and childlike 

 confidence and joy. I soon discovered that the 

 pair were building a nest upon a low branch a few 

 yards from me. The male flew cautiously to the 

 spot and adjusted something, and the twain moved 

 on, the female calling to her mate at intervals, 

 love-e, with a cadence and tenderness in the 



