A Domestic Tragedy 



By JULIA MOESEL, Ithaca, N. Y. 

 With photographs by A. A. Allen 



IT WAS early in May, 19 14, when many of our feathered friends were mak- 

 ing their first appearance in spring. Indeed, great was the anxiety to be 

 among the first to greet the new arrivals as they returned from southern 

 climes, and greater still was that soHcitude to be able to number among them 

 some very rare migrant or chance summer visitant. 



That May morning was an ideal one for bird-study, for there was every 

 indication of a most promising day. With expectancy reaching the highest 

 pitch, I set out determined to see everything. Following one of the shaded 

 paths that course the shore of a small lake on one side and a woody hill on the 

 other, I was attracted by some faint sounds and lisping iseeps. In the very 

 tree- tops, the birds were enjoying themselves. Warblers were evident: the 

 Black-throated Blue, the Cape May, the Chestnut-sided, the Nashville, the 

 Parula, the Black-throated Green, and the Blackburnian. But neither new 

 nor rare species could be counted among them. 



Further into the depths of the wooded hillside I ventured. A strange song 

 greeted my ears. It was a prolonged but interrupted warble followed by a few 

 loud notes matchless for their tenderness and cadence. It was a melodious 

 song indeed; the song of the bird I had long vainly looked for but never had 

 the pleasure to see — the Blue-headed Vireo. 



I watched him for some time, as he flitted from tree-top to tree-top, now 

 hiding under the dense branches of the hemlocks, then giving an occasional 

 musical chatter, or a pretty trilled whistle, or an enchanting short warble. 



The next morning, I was determined to make a still further acquaintance 

 with my new friend, and no sooner had I entered the woods than I was greeted 

 by the selfsame song. I began to hope that he might stay with us for the spring, 

 but the third day he was nowhere to be found. 



About ten days later, however, when I was strolling along again, gazing 

 among the tree-tops to see that no arrival might pass unnoticed, I was 

 attracted by a rattling sound among the leaves on the ground. A careful look 

 convinced me that it was the Blue-headed Vireo, my old friend, no doubt. He 

 had found a piece of waxed paper which someone had discarded and implanting 

 his httle feet very firmly on one corner, unaware of my presence, he started in 

 a very dihgent manner to tear the opposite corner into small pieces about one 

 centimeter square. I concluded that his nest was in the process of construction. 

 Cautiously I followed him, and much to my surprise, I found the place for his 

 new spring home in a branch of hemlock. A rather inconspicuous place had 

 been chosen for the site, scarcely ten feet from the ground and about twenty 

 feet from a much-traveled path in the woods. 



I watched him while he sang at his work, every now and then returning 



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