XII 

 THE WARBLER AND HIS WAYS 



DURING the warm days of June, I often frequent a 

 woody retreat above the old mill-dam on Fulton 

 Creek. The water gurgles among the gray rocks and 

 glides past a clump of firs and maples. Star-flowers gleam 

 from the darker places of shade, white anemones are scat- 

 tered in the green of the grass blades and ferns, and Lin- 

 naean bells overhang the moss-covered logs. 



As one sits here in the midst of the woods, the chords 

 of every sense are stretched. The nostrils sniff the scent 

 of the fir boughs tipped with their new growth of lighter 

 green. The eye catches the cautious movements of furry 

 and feathered creatures. The heart beats in tune with the 

 forest pulse. 



One day as I lay idling in this favorite haunt a 

 shadow, caught in the net of sunbeams, spread under the 

 maple. A Black-throated Gray Warbler (Dendroica 

 nlgrescens) fidgeted on the limb above with a straw in her 

 bill. This was pleasing. I had searched the locality for 

 years, trying to find the home of this shy bird, and here 

 was a piece of evidence thrust squarely in my face. 



The site of the nest was twelve feet from the ground 

 in the top of a sapling. A week and a half later I parted 

 the branches and found a cup of grasses, feather-lined, 

 nestled in the fork of the fir. There lay four eggs of a 

 pinkish tinge, touched with dots of brown. 



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