298 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



and what became of the birds I cannot say. What or who the robber 

 was, I do not know, but I do know that these tragedies occur all too 

 frequently in my locality. 



I must say something about that noted songster of the south, the 

 Mocking Bird. Only today I found a nest of this member of the thrush 

 family. They often build their homes near my residence and here they 

 sing throughout the nesting season. This bird seems to me to be the 

 most graceful of all our songsters. He mounts upwards to some tree 

 top with an ease and grace that is all his own, all the while imitating 

 the notes of some nearby bird who, I should think would feel ashamed 

 to be outdone by this winner of the laurel— the Mocking Bird. I have 

 often heard them singing in the quiet night. Then it seems that he 

 sings with a sweetness that is rarely equalled by any other bird. 

 There are many other birds that I frequently see in my rambles; among 

 them I might mention the Red-headed Woodpecker, Cardinal, Summer 

 Redbird, various sparrows. Thrushes and the like. 



My favorite of all the birds is the Wood Thrush. Last season a pair 

 of them built their nest near a country homestead where I was stop- 

 ping and I had ample opportunity for observing their winning ways. 

 Very frequently the male would sing in the locusts and oaks near the 

 door. What a thrilling musical tone he has. Every time I hear his 

 song it has some new attraction. Clement s. bryan. 



GLEANINGS, 



Then the little Hiawatha 



Learned of every bird its language. 

 Learned their names and all their secrets, 



How they built their nests in summer. 

 Where they hid themselves in winter. 

 And the birds sang round him, o'er him, 



"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha." 

 Sang the Opechee, the Robin, 



Sang the Bluebird, the Owaissa, 

 "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha." 



— Longfellow. 



So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain 

 No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 

 Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart 

 And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. 



— Byron. 



