MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



low mark at the base of his tail, enabling us to 

 recognize him as the myrtle or yellow-rumped 

 warbler. Quite a change from the costume in 

 which he passed us on his northward journey a 

 few months ago. All his colors are subdued now, 

 with the exception of this bright spot at the base 

 of the tail. 



If the fancy takes this little fellow he may 

 remain in the grove throughout the entire winter, 

 for he is one of the feathered folk whose food 

 does not depend altogether on warm weather 

 conditions, and a fine crop of his favorite dainties 

 the bayberries awaits him here this year. 



But the myrtle warbler is no longer the only 

 visitor at the old apple-tree. Several of his own 

 family have joined him and now still other for- 

 agers are flitting about among the skeletonized 

 leaves that sway and rustle on the old tree. The 

 destructive fall web worm has passed this way 

 and perhaps some of the pupae still lodge in the 

 folded-over recesses of the leaves; but they will 

 hardly escape the vigilant search of our feathered 

 friends. None of the foragers are more active 

 than the golden-crowned kinglets, those dainty 

 little greenish-backed sprites with whitish breasts. 

 Now and then we get glimpses of their prettily 



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