48 THE HOME OF THE WILLOW-WEEN 



eyes. Bub while more retiring, he is less self- 

 conscious. His little mate has joined him from 

 the south, and together they are occupied in 

 household cares. A carefully-woven nest, made 

 of grass and moss and leaves, and lined with 

 downy feathers, will shortly be their chief 

 delight. Many a journey will the tiny singer 

 make to the home in the grass at the foob of the 

 hedgerow, during the time when his mate sits 

 anxiously hatching her eggs, or later, when the 

 six white shells spotted with red have released 

 their tiny, helpless occupants, whose constanb 

 needs become a tax on the insect-catching 

 abilities of their parents. Filled with the 

 anticipation of parental pride, the warbler, 

 grown bold in song, though still shy in habit, 

 trills a far more perfect carol than that which 

 I heard practised artlessly among the sprouting 

 alders in the cold, damp days of April. His 

 throat swells into the shape of a pouch, and the 

 feathers ruffle out when the notes are for a 

 moment sustained ; he sings apparently in the 

 consciousness that his great ambition in life, 

 the care of a wife and family, is about to be 

 fulfilled. 



It is most amusing to observe this diminutive 

 woodland songster making love to the equally 

 diminutive object of his ardent affection. He 

 stands on a twig in sight of his mate, and 



