A WINDOW STUDY. 



OI,IVE THORNE MILI^ER. 



ONE of the best places to study 

 birds is from behind the blinds 

 of a conveniently-placed win- 

 dow, where one can see with- 

 out being seen. 



My window one July looked into 

 the tops of tall spruce trees, relieved 

 here and there by a pine, a birch, or a 

 maple. This was the home of the 

 most fascinating and the most bewild- 

 ering of feathered tribes, the warblers, 

 and a rugged old spruce tree was a 

 favorite "Inn of Rest" for every bird 

 in the vicinity. 



In all the years that I have known 

 birds I have carefully avoided becom- 

 ing interested in warblers, so tiny, so 

 restless, so addicted to the upper 

 branches, so every way tantalizing to 

 study. But here, without intention on 

 my part, fate had opened my windows 

 into their native haunts, even into the 

 very tree-tops where they dwell. "He 

 strives in vain who strives with fate." 

 After one protest I succumbed to their 

 charms. 



My principal visitor was a beauty, 

 like most of his distinguished family, 

 having a bright yellow head, set off by 

 a broad black band beginning at the 

 throat and running far down the sides, 

 and he bore the awkward name "black- 

 throated green warbler." 



A bewitching and famous singer is 

 this atom in black and gold. And not 

 only is his song the sweetest and most 

 winning, but the most unique, and — 

 what is not generally known — the most 

 varied. 



The song that has been oftenest 

 noticed, and is considered characteris- 

 tic of the species, is sometimes syllabled 

 as "trees, trees, beautiful trees," some- 

 times as "hear me Saint Theresa." 

 But in my intimate acquaintance with 

 some of the family that July I noted 

 down from my window alone eight dis- 



tinctly different melodies. My special 

 little neighbor, who spent hours every 

 day in the old spruce, sang the regula- 

 tion carol of his tribe, but he also in- 

 dulged in at least one other totally un- 

 like that. Those two I have heard and 

 seen him sing, one directly after the 

 other, but he may have had half a 

 dozen arrangements of his sweet notes. 

 Sometimes the mate of my spruce- 

 tree neighbor appeared on the tree, 

 going over the branches in a business- 

 like way, and uttering a loud, sharp 

 "chip." 



One morning there suddenly broke 

 out in the old spruce a great clatter of 

 "tick-et! tick-et!" in the voic^ of a 

 nestling. I snatched my glass and 

 turned it at once upon a much-excited 

 warbler, my black-throated green. He 

 was hopping about in a way unusual 

 even with him, and from every side 

 came the thread-like cries, while the 

 swaying of twigs pointed out a whole 

 family of little folk, scrambling about 

 in warbler fashion and calling like big- 

 ger bird babies for food. They were 

 plainly just out of the nest, and then I 

 studied my spruce-tree bird in a new 

 role, the father of a family. 



He was charming in that as in every 

 other, and he was evidently a "good 

 provider," for I often saw him after 

 that day going about in great anxiety, 

 looking here and there and every- 

 where, while a small green worm in the 

 beak told plainly enough that he was 

 seeking his wandering offspring. 



During the remainder of the month 

 I frequently saw, and more frequently 

 heard, the little family as they followed 

 their busy parents around on the neigh- 

 boring trees. 



One day I noted the singer flitting 

 about the top of the spruce, singing 

 most joyously, and almost as con- 

 stantly as before the advent of the 



