The Baltimore Oriole 137 



under the boughs of a Spitzenburg apple tree, amid the blossoms of which 

 they were rummaging (perhaps for insects) but also scattering the rosy 

 blossoms right and left with torn and bruised petals. Powell, in ' The In- 

 dependent,' writes feelingly of this trait of the Oriole, thus: 



" An Oriole is like a golden shuttle in the foliage of the trees, but he is 

 the incarnation of mischief. That is just the word for it. If there is any- 

 thing possible to be destroyed, the Oriole likes to tear it up. 



" He wastes a lot of string in building his nest. He is pulling ofif apple 

 blossoms now, possibly eating a few petals. By and by he will pick holes in 

 bushels of grapes, and in plum season he will let the wasps and hornets into 

 the heart of every Golden Abundance plum on your favorite tree. . . . 

 Yet the saucy scamp is so beautiful that he is tolerated — and he does kill an 

 enormous lot of insects. There is a swinging nest just over there above the 

 blackberry bushes. It is wonderfully woven and is a cradle as well as a 

 house. I should like to have been brought up in such a homestead." 



It seems as if the Oriole must be the descendant of one of 

 His Country the brilliant birds that inhabited North America in by-gone 

 days of tropic heat, and that has stayed on from a matter of 

 hereditary association ; for in the nesting season it is to be found from 

 Florida and Texas up to New Brunswick and the Saskatchewan country 

 and westward to the Rockies, beyond which this type is replaced by Bul- 

 lock's Oriole, of much similar coloring save that it has more orange on the 

 sides of the head and the white wing patch is larger. 



But, however much the Baltimore Oriole loves his native 



His Travels land, the climate and the exigencies of travel make his stay in 



it brief; for he does not appear until there is some protection 



of foliage, and he starts southward toward his winter home in Central and 



South America often before a single leaf has fallen. 



THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE 



How falls it, Oriole, thou hast come to fly 

 In tropic splendor through our northern sky? 



At some glad moment was it Nature^s choice 

 To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice? 



Or did an orange tulip flaked with black, 

 In some forgotten garden, ages back, 



Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, 



Desire unspeakably to be a bird. 



— Edgar Faivcett 



