Birds and Seasons in My Garden 231 



To a trumpet- vine that has made itself into an upright form by dinging to an 

 old-fashioned summer pear tree, we owe the presence of Baltimore Orioles dur- 

 ing the molting season, and up to the very last day of their stay, the latter part of 

 the month. Their presence, to be sure, was at the price of the perfect beauty of 

 the flowers; for, barely was one of the long clustered buds ready to unfold, when 

 it was pierced at the base by the Oriole's slender bill, even as he attacked the 

 apple blossoms in May. Then, when the flower-supply fails, these birds move to 

 the grape arbor below the Thrasher's Shrubbery, where are gathered the 

 derelicts of the garden grapes, profuse in yield, though deficient in table 

 quality, upon which all the birds are welcome to feast. One of the great secrets 

 of a happy garden (or garden happiness, if you prefer the wording) is to have 

 plenty of gleanings alike for man and beast. A too-clean sweeping of the corners 

 of things, a too-precise counting up of the uttermost grains and blossoms, some- 

 how cramps the spiritual focus of both eye and soul, aside from leaving nothing 

 for the gleaners, be they on foot or wing. 



This year, a new bird has added itself to the early autumn company at the 

 feeding station on the wall — the Brown Thrasher. Little by little, the Wood 

 Thrush is becoming the fourth of the famihar garden quartet, the other 

 three being, in point of familiarity, the Song Sparrow, Robin and Catbird; 

 but this is the first season that the Thrasher (or rather five of them — two 

 adults and three nestlings) has come almost daily to the feeding-board on the 

 piazza railing. 



This particular board, being close outside the dining-room window, affords 

 a fine chance of seeing a few friendly birds in all the grotesque vagaries of the 

 molt. Tommy Tucker — a name given by the Commuter to a particularly 

 cheerful Song Sparrow, who, like the little boy in the rhyme, always sings, not 

 only before, but after supper, having a pecuHar long-drawn note by which we 

 identify him — has been having a very hard time with his tail. For some time 

 he had none at all. Then a solitary outside quill grew at almost right angles to 

 its proper place. This evidently annoyed Tommy, and one day, when in plain 

 sight, he plucked it out, and shortly a symmetrical array of feathers put forth 

 and grew nicely. 



For what reason I cannot guess, — unless that the drought and a consequent 

 poor food-supply have kept the birds more in the open, where they are under 

 observation, — this has been a particularly taifless season. The most conspicu- 

 ous subject has been a Crow, who, in trying to fly against the wind, became 

 utterly demoralized, and, after affording an interesting study of wing-steering 

 for several minutes, suddenly plumped down into the garden, much to the joy 

 of some Jay cousins. 



Warblers galore are coming in and through, but, when mingling their fall 

 feathers with the turning leaves of the last half of the month, they represent 

 what may be called confusion worse confounded, even to one who has a fair 

 spring acquaintance with them. A few stand-bys we may always recognize — 



