298 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



AN AFTERNOON WITH THE BIRDS, 



By O. Waeren Smith. 

 It was nearly two o'clock when I left the house with bird-glass, note 

 book and pencil, so I "made tracks" for the woods stopping only long 

 enough to admire that well known and much admired inhabitant ot our 

 meadows, the Bobolink. How sweet his song. He sings as though 

 he enjoyed singing. As he mounts upward he seems beating time 

 with his wings. I could have listened and admired all the afternoon 

 but the distant trees invited me, so I hastened on. 



As I entered the wood I could not help being impressed by the 

 abundant flowers. Columbine, crane's bill, butter cups, phlox, shep- 

 herd's purse, and others, pressed me upon all sides. But I was not 

 out after flowers and a low "Uoli-a-e-o-li-noli-noe-aeolee-lee!" from a 

 nearby thicket of willows caused me to forget the flowers. I knew the 

 bird by his song even before I saw him. No wonder Nuttall calls the 

 Wood Thrush the "solitary and retiring songster." I must have hunted 

 all of twenty minutes before I discovered the little brown bird, and 

 when I did discover him he sat upon a limb right before me. Often 

 have I looked all over a tree for some feathered songster only to find 

 him, in the end, within a few feet of me and in plain sight too. But 

 fortune favored me. I discovered the half completed nest of my 

 friend in a near by willow. I sat down upon a moss covered log to 

 watch. The birds seemed to know that I was harmless and went on 

 with their house building. Birch bark seemed to be the favorite build- 

 ing m^aterial, and it was wonderful to see a bird flying to the nest with 

 a piece of bark larger than itself. Standing upon the edge of the nest 

 the bird would tear the bark into long narrow strips, using its feet to 

 hold the bark while it tore it with its bill. 



While I sat watching the Wood Thrush a new note came to me from 

 a nearby poplar grove. Marking the nest so that I could find it again 

 I followed the new voice. I cautiously advanced until the music was 

 above me, then peered into the trembling leaves. A branch, bent aside 

 by the wind, revealed for an instant a bit of scarlet. "A Tanager," I 

 exclaimed under my breath. Changing my position so that I could 

 get a good view of the bird I leveled the glasses and proceeded to ex- 

 amine it. My "find" proved to be the Summer Tanager, or Red-bird. 

 The first, by the way, I ever saw. Perched high up on a swaying 

 branch, the bright scarlet of its feathers showing well against the sil- 

 very green of the poplar, it was a sight to remember. Its song re- 

 minded me of the Oriole, but was sweeter and richer. Perhaps the 

 bird saw me, or perhaps its mate demanded attention, anyway it flew — 

 a flash of color, and was gone. 



