Birds and Seasons in My Garden 71 



top of a tree, and remains motionless except to occasionally raise her head 

 and give a sort of quavering croak suggestive of nausea, while the others dash 

 about her in small circles, evidently in an angry or possibly competitive mood, 

 until, without any apparent reason, they flock closely and disappear. 



According to season and circumstances, dates of arrival in my diary vary 

 sometimes by ten days or two weeks, and so I have come to associate certain 

 parts of the months with groups of birds, rather than separate days with 

 individuals. 



With me, the middle of April means the final move of the Fox Sparrows 

 that have been coming and going for several weeks, usually feeding in a weed 

 field next door; but they frequently come to a little copse between the garden 

 and pool where the dead leaves are allowed to lie and turn to mold. Here 

 they scratch about with almost chicken-like vigor, and from the taller bushes 

 I am almost sure to hear at least one of this Sparrow's wonderful evensongs. 



A few years ago, the coming of the Barn Swallows was the next event, 

 then a rearrangement of the buildings made them strangers. This year, I 

 have had new openings made in one of the lofts, and I am expecting the Swal- 

 lows to discover the fact as quickly as the Screech Owl found the box on the 

 pine tree top. 



It is an endless surprise to me — this alertness and constant watchfulness on 

 the part of birds for suitable nesting-sites. Last spring, when we had harbored 

 no Chimney Swift about the place for years, owing to hooded chimney-tops, 

 a revolving drum was blown off by the wind, and a pair of Swifts discovered 

 the fact even before we house people realized the loss. 



The Black-thtoated Green Warbler is one of the most abundant and least 

 shy of the early comers of this interesting, yet puzzHng family, if the hardy 

 Myrtle Warbler of the four yellow spots be excepted. The Black-throat be- 

 takes itself to the most plumy hemlock spruces, where it flits about incessantly, 

 now showing the white tail feathers and then its dark throat and yellow 

 face, while giving its unmistakable song by fits and starts. 



The Myrtle Warbler, at least when it visits my garden, keeps close to the 

 ground, searching along the lee of the grass borders for the smallest speck of 

 animal life, and follows the overflow of the cobbled gutter, investigating the 

 rustic seats, summer-house and porch steps with the greatest care. In fact, 

 I find these two Warblers, together with their more tardy kin, the Yellow 

 Warbler {Dendroica cestiva), and the Black and White Warbler, among our 

 friendly birds, in spite of the fact that they are theoretically counted shy. 



Gradually, as April reaches toward May and there is only a week's space 

 between them, I expect at any moment the arrival of the first three of the 

 sextet of great soloists that have come to be a part of the very garden itself, 

 and as much to be counted upon as the succession of border flowers. The 

 first three are the Brown Thrasher, Wood Thrush and Catbird; the second, 

 the Rosebreasted Grosbeak, the Orchard and Baltimore Orioles. 



