AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 211 



There is no more cheerful resident of the roadside thickets than the 

 gray-capped, red-eyed Vireo, whose all summer song of "sweet-spirit, 

 sweet-sweet spirit" is in constant adoration of the demure little mate, 

 who, in her basket-like nest, sits and sits and says nothing, but she 

 must receive some consolation and enjoyment from a partner whose 

 music is not alone a lover's eulogy, but also a husband's praise song, 

 which continues on through the long summer days, so filled with par- 

 ental cares and fears that silence the enthusiasm of most of the feath- 

 ered minstrels. Another all day and all summer songster is the alert 

 nad buoyant little Maryland Yellow-throat, who is not to be outdone in 

 exuberance of song as he flits in and out among the swamp bushes, 

 and his "stitch-a-wiggle, stitch-a-wiggle, stitch-a-wiggle, stitch-em" 

 gushes forth with such vehemance that it is almost exhaustive on a 

 heated summer afternoon, and one longs for the hour when the "stitch- 

 er" shall be at rest under the shelter of some moon bathed willow for the 

 night. Most every one is familiar with that other member of the war- 

 bler family, the Summer Yellow Bird whose enthusiastic "sweet-sweet" 

 sweet-aint-she-sweet," is in continuous adoration of the eternal femi- 

 nine; it is invigorating as a breath of the snowy cherry blossoms which 

 he investigates so carefully for the small larvae so destructive to the 

 economics of that red-cheeked fruit. 



We have all been admonished by the sharp "quit, quit" of some full- 

 chested Robin whom we have disturbed in his privacy, but he cheers us 

 immensely on a "misty, moisty morning" with his hilarious "clear-up, 

 clear-up, sing." Walking quietly underneath a growth of young trees 

 one can almost approach without disturbing a mild-voiced, rich plum- 

 aged Indigo Bunting, who is singing softly his "sweet, sweet, sweet, 

 keep-it, keep-it, keep-it," but come too near the hidden nest of his dull- 

 feathered little mate, patiently hiding under her soft breast feathers 

 those dainty, white, blue-tinted eggs, and the gentle cadence is imme- 

 diately changed to a series of vindicative "chips" that sound suspici- 

 ously like oaths of the bird vocabulary. 



For three years I have recognized a chestnut-crowned Chipping 

 Sparrow from his peculiarity of song, which seems to be his own indi- 

 vidual rendition of the music of his species, and his "Think, think, 

 think sir, (meditatively) what-in-all-she-is-to-me" (enthusiastically) 

 induces one to speculate as to whether or no it is the same little wife 

 each year to whom he rapsodizes so eloquently. 



The song of the crimson grosbeak (James Lane Allen's Kentucky 

 Cardinal) is particularly easy of translation, his "What cheer? What 



