DELPORT FIELD TRIPS AT FALLEN LEAF LAKE 169 



The day began at sunrise next morning when we stole out in 

 time to greet our late robin, his breast to match the dawn, as he 

 flew back and forth to the lake-shore where undoubtedly he got 

 his worm. 



Right in front of us a noisy quack-quack soimded, and out of 

 a marshy covert, nine shiny mallards started a parade over the 

 glassy surface of the lake, — monarchs at that early hour, of all 

 they surveyed. Starting towards the lodge, we stopped to listen 

 to the greetings of a dainty, fluffy bit of yellow dancing about 

 on a dogwood that enveloped our cabin. On closer inspection 

 we discovered a household of these yellow midgets and by their 

 black caps we identified them, as pileolated warblers, chirping and 

 bustling about, all alive for the chores of the day and just now 

 engaged in foraging for breakfast. Following their example 

 we reached the dining room and lingered there until the gathering 

 of bird-hunters on the porch outside gave us the signal that the 

 climb to the Angora Lakes was about to begin. 



At the foot of the trail we crossed a gentian glen, cool and 

 shadowy, the blossoms like bits of azure sky sprinkled from above 

 into a mossy bed of green. Right over our heads in the pine 

 branches, chubby bits of gray pranced about and a chickadee-dee- 

 dee in a wheezy, chirpy chorus rained down upon us. Upon closer 

 inspection we foimd this stately old pine transformed into an 

 up-to-date apartment house, for each limb furnished another 

 story to house these active little creatures. Perfectly oblivious 

 of what went on about them, they swung nimbly about, playing 

 what seemed a game of see-saw, heads downward part of the time. 



The caravan had started the descent of the trail, not however, 

 before they had located the loud, screeching call of a jay. A 

 beautiful, dull blue-fronted bird with a darker crest sailed across 

 the gap, followed by three more of his kind. These mountain 

 jays are more ornate than their coastal cousins, but their voices 

 have the same loud, rasping quality. 



Three little brown striped chipmunks emerged from the brush, 

 stared and started off again, quick as darting shadows across the 

 trail. A few steps onward and another call pierced the silence, 

 this time a queer, nasal quonk-quonk-quonk. A nuthatch, small, 

 bluish-gray, with a black cap and white throat and breast, firmly 

 planted to the bole of a tree, started zig-zagging upward, pecking 



