IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



loveliest songster in the world the hermit-thrush; 

 and here, in mating-time, especially on the fir-clad 

 slopes of our Northern mountains, he pours out 

 his indescribable melody, while the sunset makes 

 magic stained-glass windows down the cathedral 

 aisles of the hemlocks. Here breed the Wilson, or 

 the veery. Here the whippoorwill lays his eggs on 

 the ground, and in the rare event of your discovering 

 them (so well protected are they in color) he (or 

 rather she) simply moves them elsewhere. Here the 

 chickadee goes to raise his family in a hollow stump, 

 here the partridge builds his simple nest of leaves 

 and a few feathers at the base of a stump, the crow 

 builds on top of last year's nest in a tall pine, the 

 oven-bird makes his curious covered nest on the 

 ground and screams teacher, teacher, if you come 

 near, the wood-pewee sounds his sweet, sad, an- 

 dante little call to his mate, and the red-eyed vireo 

 and many of the warblers customarily breed. Walk- 

 ing through the woods, we are not, as a rule, aware 

 of the great quantity of bird life about us. We hear 

 the thrushes, to be sure, though it is seldom enough 

 that we see a hermit, and the drumming grouse 

 arouses us. But until we go with our ears and eyes 

 alert for the birds, especially the chickadees and 

 small warblers, we often think of our woods as de- 

 ficient in bird life compared with our fields or yards. 

 Perhaps that but shows how wise the shy birds are 

 in choosing the forest for a nesting-place. . And 

 there is such a bewildering multiplicity of branches 

 for the eye to search in, and when you draw near the 

 thrush whose call you have heard ringing through 

 the hushed forest, he but flutters, invisible, farther 



