100 Bird-Lore 
alarm note to the mother feeding her four spiny fledglings on the window-shutter 
nest. Then the Bluebird, perched on the top of the barn, sees the landlord and 
calls to its mate. This call has not the “cheerie, cheerie”’ note that it had a while 
ago. The birds have changed their song since they got down to hard work. But 
when this brood is able to take care of itself, and the old birds resume their love- 
making, the “‘cheerie,” cheerful notes will take the place of the “‘we’ve toiled the 
whole day long” tune. 
The Kingbirds, which persist in building in the eavespout, instead of on the 
safe foundation provided by better foresight, stop their work and announce 
to the neighbors that the landlord is out. The confiding little Chickadees, which. 
were driven by the Bluebirds from the box so carefully fashioned like a hollow 
stump, occasionally return, and, looking over their first choice, seem to say that 
they are sorry they took the old stump across the road for a nest. Below the house 
the Chebecs are nesting in the elm tree, and, as the landlord approaches, one 
calls to the other, ‘“‘chebec, chebec, chebec’”’; then from the mate on the telephone 
wire the answer quickly comes, “quit, quit, quit,” which probably does not mean 
stop in the Chebecish tongue. 
The Hermit Thrush; the Voice of the Northern Woods 
By CORDELIA J. STANWOOD, Ellsworth, Maine 
N the Canadian fauna, the Hermit Thrush, the most definite Thrush to study, 
I comes a month before the Olive-backed Thrush arrives, while the snow- 
wraiths still linger in the shadowy forests, before the arbutus has begun its 
subtle task of transmuting decaying earth molds into rough leaves, waxen petals, 
and delicate perfume, and stands out against a background of well-nigh silent 
woods. It tarries as long after its congener has departed. Again it is in the 
foreground of a landscape, accented by dry rustling leaves and naked tree trunks, 
with but few birds to rival it in our attention. 
When the Hermit Thrush makes its début in the spring, its song is wonderfully 
sweet, but it does not come into full possession of its voice until some time after 
its arrival. In early August, it is still in full song. It was in the gloaming, August 
4, 1909, that I stole upon one of the most ethereal demonstrations of the Hermit 
Thrush I ever witnessed. My narrow footway lay through a stretch of evergreen 
woods, interspersed with a few birches and poplars. The birds were perched at 
different heights on the side of the woods illumined by the sinking sun, and 
seemed to vie each with other in hymning its glories. Each burst of melody was 
more indescribably perfect. Before the last cadence of one song died on the 
air, a pure, serene exalted pan of praise burst forth from another golden 
throat. The air palpitated with Thrush harmonies. I paused and passed on 
unobserved in the quickly gathering shadows, my footsteps falling noiselessly 
on pine leaf and moss-tuft. By August 14, the song is thin, suggesting the 
