UNDER THE MAPLES 



was off, hotly pursued. I must not forget the pair of 

 wood thrushes that are building a nest in a maple 

 fifty or more feet away. How I love to see them 

 on the ground at my feet, every motion and gesture 

 like music to the eye! The head and neck of the 

 male fairly glows, and there is something fine and 

 manly about his speckled breast. 



A pair of catbirds have a nest in the barberry 

 bushes at the south end of the house, and are in 

 evidence at all hours. But when the nest is com- 

 pleted, and the laying of eggs begins, they keep out 

 of the public eye as much as possible. From the 

 front of the stage they retreat behind the curtain. 



One day as I sat here I heard the song of the 

 olive-backed thrush down in the currant-bushes 

 below me. Instantly I was transported to the 

 deep woods and the trout brooks of my native Cats- 

 kills. I heard the murmuring water and felt the 

 woodsy coolness of those retreats — such magic hath 

 associative memories! A moment before a yellow- 

 throated vireo sang briefly in the maple, a harsh 

 note; and the oriole with its insistent call added to 

 the disquieting sounds. I have no use for the 

 oriole. He has not one musical note, and in grape 

 time his bill is red, or purple, with the blood of our 

 ' grapes. 



But the most of these little people are my bene- 

 factors, and add another ray of sunshine to the 

 May day. I shall not soon forget the spectacle of 



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