UNDER THE MAPLES 



fident heads with open mouths instantly appeared 

 above the brim. The mother bird meanwhile was 

 flitting about in the branches overhead, peering 

 down upon me and uttering her anxious "quay 

 quay,*' equivalent, I suppose, to saying: "Get 

 away!" This I soon did. 



Most of our bird music, like our wild flowers, is 

 soon quickly over. But the red-eyed vireo sings 

 on into September — not an ecstatic strain, but a 

 quiet, contented warble, like a boy whistling at 

 his work. 



