IN THE CATSKILLS 



Presently the birds appeared, a pair of the soli- 

 tary vireo. They came flitting from point to point, 

 alighting only for a moment at a time, the male 

 silent, but the female uttering this strange, tender 

 note. It was a rendering into some new sylvan 

 dialect of the human sentiment of maidenly love. 

 It was really pathetic in its sweetness and childlike 

 confidence and joy. I soon discovered that the 

 pair were building a nest upon a low branch a few 

 yards from me. The male flew cautiously to the 

 spot and adjusted something, and the twain moved 

 on, the female calling to her mate at intervals, 

 love-e, love-e, with a cadence and tenderness in the 

 tone that rang in the ear long afterward. The nest 

 was suspended to the fork of a small branch, as is 

 usual with the vireos, plentifully lined with lichens, 

 and bound and rebound with masses of coarse spi- 

 der-webs. There was no attempt at concealment 

 except in the neutral tints, which made it look like 

 a natural growth of the dim, gray woods. 



Continuing my random walk, I next paused in a 

 low part of the woods, where the larger trees began 

 to give place to a thick second-growth that covered 

 an old Barkpeeling. I was standing by a large 

 maple, when a small bird darted quickly away from 

 it, as if it might have come out of a hole near its 

 base. As the bird paused a few yards from me, 

 and began to chirp uneasily, my curiosity was at 

 once excited. When I saw it was the female mourn- 

 138 



