THE WARBLER'S NEW ROLE 89 



could never " name the bird without a gun," 

 and that would put them forever beyond the 

 acquaintance of a bird-lover. 



One morning I sat in the nook, admiring, 

 as many times before, the beautiful effects 

 of light and shade among the spruces, made 

 by the slanting beams of the sun, not yet 

 very high, when suddenly there broke out in 

 the old spruce before me a great clatter of 

 " ticket ! ticket ! " in the voice of the nest. 

 I snatched my glass and turned it at once 

 upon a much excited warbler, my black- 

 throated green. He was hopping about in a 

 way unusual even with him, and from every 

 side came the thread-like cries, while the 

 swaying of twigs pointed out a whole family 

 of little folk, scrambling about in warbler 

 fashion, and vociferously calling, like bigger 

 bird-babies, for food. They were evidently 

 just out of the nest, and then I studied my 

 spruce-tree bird in a new role, the father 

 of a family. 



He was charming in that as in every 

 other, and he was plainly a " good provider," 

 for I often saw him after that day, going 

 about in great anxiety, looking here and 



