VI 

 THE WILES OF A WARBLER 



ONE morning soon after reaching the plea- 

 sant nook described in the preceding chapter, 

 with its delicious odors of the woods, I was 

 greeted by an unfamiliar note. It was the 

 inconsequent song of a warbler, but neither 

 the jerked-out carol of the redstart, nor the 

 aristocratic drawl of the black-throated green. 

 It was in a hoarse or husky tone, a short, 

 sharp " zee-zee-zee-zip ! " the last note higher 

 and snapped off. 



I hastened to get my glass upon the 

 stranger, when I found him a beauty in blue 

 and white, a parula warbler, the first I had 

 ever seen. He stayed but a few minutes, 

 and I turned again to watch the redstart 

 family : the little singer in gorgeous coat, 

 as conspicuous as a spark of fire in the dark, 

 and his mate hardly less gay in bright yellow 

 and brown. She was at the moment making 

 her way up an old spruce-tree, flying and 



