i66 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



BIRDS IN THEIR HAUNTS. 



The relation of the bird to the landscape — how often any bird-lover 

 has felt this but never really thought of it! We find it on every side, 

 yet make no comment. To show how widespread it is, let us take 

 several representative birds. 



I. 



The Wood Pewee. — With this bird I always associate a languid, mid- 

 summer noon. I always remember a beautiful mountain lake, with its 

 soft waters; the glassy reflections of the trees, and reeds broken oc- 

 casionally by the movement of some insect or fish; the azure sky over- 

 head with the full glare of the hot sun at noon. The soft dark green 

 of the heavy pines relieved by the tall beech and white birch trees; the 

 emerald green swamp grass, and the slender blue reeds; then the 

 dreaminess of life! Nature is taking her midday nap; most of the birds 

 are silent, but from across the lake comes "the sweet, dreamy, midday 

 call of the Pewee" (Chapman) and the monotonous notes of the Red- 

 eyed Vireo; the insects also are resting, but not silent; the oppressive 

 air is filled with the chirp of the crickets and the buzz of the cicadas, 

 while myriads of smaller insects join in, making a drowsy, dreamy, 

 unbroken, confused murmur. Thus, it seems to me, is the Pewee re- 

 lated to the landscape. 



II. 



The Slate-colored Junco. — The opposite of the Pewee in almost every 

 respect. Quite different recollections does the name of this bird bring 

 back. Invariably I think of a certain tramp in the country last Feb- 

 ruary on one of those days when — as Frank Bolles says — "one had to 

 be pessamistic to realize that it was only a mocking grin on the mask of 

 winter and not a smile on the lips of spring." The sun was sending its 

 warm rays down on the earth, melting the few spots of snow that yet 

 survived. Though at times the sky was hazy, no clouds of any weight 

 obscured the sun. From the north came a very light breeze, not at all 

 cold, but how exhilarating! It was one of those days when one feels 

 so much and thinks so much. What fond recollections each familiar 

 spot brought back! Here I saw a Cerulean Warbler; here a Chestnut- 

 sided; and here along this stream, I first heard the wild, ringing 

 notes of the Louisiana Water-thrush. But now all are gone. Not a 

 sound comes from the woods once so full of life. The gentle breeze 

 makes (not "laughter in the poplar trees") a sound of death. Each 

 leaf as it loosens its last grip on a maple or oak, falls and is caught by 

 the breeze, I walk on sadly enough along the road with the big trees 

 on either side. In ten minutes I am once more in an open country. 



