42 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



Friday, August 7. About 4:20 A. M. seems 

 to be the time that I each morn arise, though 

 I do not especially will it so. When camping 

 one unconsciously falls into a habit of early 

 rising. The call of the dove was one of the first 

 sounds that greeted the new born day. "Coo- 

 o-coo-coo-coo " soft and low, then a pause of 

 some ten seconds and a repetition, the first note 

 slightly the longest. Once in a while the first 

 or prolonged note is uttered by itself, the bird 

 suddenly stopping as if choked. It is a pleas- 

 ing but plaintive sound on this languid August 

 morn. 



In strong contrast was the ' ' cher-whitty 

 cher-whitty cher-whitty, che-whe che-whe 

 che-whe which soon after came from a haw- 

 thorne just back of the tent. Peering into its 

 midst I saw a skeedoodlum of a wren, his fea- 

 thers half gone from moulting, his body not 

 bigger than thirty seconds, yet with head in air 

 he was rolling forth sound enough for a cardi- 

 nal or other bird ten times his size. "Cher- 

 whitty cher-whitty " he kept it up while I 

 gazed at him, he meanwhile constantly bobbing 

 around, never still now tail up, next tail 

 down, every instant cherwhitting in tones which 

 made the welkin ring. A cheery little cuss is 

 he, who would sing were his tail on fire. A 

 brownish-gray mite of ornithology, an optim- 

 ist at all times, whose habits of sprightliness 



