WAITING FOR WARBLERS. 75 



about, and is not happy without them. During a 

 recent drought I fancied that one of them was sing- 

 ing, moisture, moisture, moisture, wet! It certainly 

 sounded as much like that as certain other words that 

 have been put into its beak. The fact is, it not only 

 sings differently in different localities, but individuals 

 differ, as I have often noticed, and this variation puz- 

 zled me until I saw the bird in the act of singing. 

 Last summer, near my house, both a yellow-throat 

 and a Carolina wren, often at the same time, kept 

 asking for an hour or more, "Where did you get it?" 

 It needed sharper ears than mine to distinguish be- 

 tween the birds. Indeed, I doubt if any one, guided 

 by the sound alone, could have distinguished one 

 from the other. My yellow-throats at home have a 

 particular fancy for the foot of a long bluff from 

 which issue many springs, and around which cluster 

 great masses of skunk cabbage. About these unat- 

 tractive plants and among the matted dead leaves 

 and moss the birds hunt all the day long, varying 

 this with frequent upward flights to the sprouting 

 birches or spice-wood bushes, from which they sing 

 with a clear-voiced animation that may be heard for 

 a long distance. Here, too, amid what people count 

 as desolating dampness, the yellow-throats build their 

 nests, and the spot becomes the more dear to them 

 from this fact, for later in the summer they do not 

 wander away. It would not be a very difficult task 

 to determine how many times in an hour, from sun- 

 rise to sunset, one of these birds shouts to the outside 

 world, wittitee, wittitee, wittitee, wee ! which, being 



