ologist can know, my old friend of a 

 score of January mornings, the ruby- 

 crowned kinglet, came out of the dense 

 undergrowth and repeated his musical 

 performance as if for my special benefit, 

 coming near enough so that through the 

 glass I could plainly see the pulsing of 

 the tiny throat as he sang. Eureka ! ! 

 I have found, not it, but him! My re- 

 served seat was good enough for all day, 

 I thought, but after giving me the best 

 selections in his list, the little fellow gave 

 a chirp and flew away over the hill. ' 



Since that lucky Sunday morning in 

 the far south one of the greatest attrac- 

 tions of the season of opening buds and 

 flitting migrant hordes has been the 

 unique, unapproachable song of Regulus 

 calendula. April in Illinois and Ohio 

 brings other things to cheer besides 

 showers and the smell of sprouting grass ; 

 when the box elder begins to bloom, take 

 your glass and repair to the nearest 

 thicket of haws and crab-apples, or if 



these are not accessible, to a broad- 

 topped box elder; now if the morning is 

 warm and you have a little patience, the 

 chances are all in your favor that you 

 will hear the melodious warbling I have 

 so imperfectly described. 



The nearest approach to this song that 

 I can think of, is the mid-summer music 

 of the warbling vireo or the nocturne 

 of the mocking bird ; but in addition to 

 the soft dreamy quality so prominent in 

 the songs of these two, there is another, 

 a ventriloquial quality, that I have never 

 found in the song of any other bird. List- 

 ening, you think the singer is deep in the 

 recesses of the bushes while the proba- 

 bilities are that he is close to you, just 

 behind that tuft of bloom or creeping his 

 way along the limb where his olive tints 

 sink into the greens and greys of his 

 surroundings. When spring comes 

 again, get out and make his acquaint- 

 ance ; it will be worth your while. 



James Stephen Compton. 



THE OVEN-BIRD'S LOVE-SONG 



When the woods and fields are most 

 beautiful; when all the early trees are 

 in full leaf and form a substantial back- 

 ground for the dizzy pink of the oaks; 

 when dogwood is in full blossom, and 

 the snowy-white trees add a touch of life 

 and gaity. altogether wanting in the 

 sombre woods of midsummer; when the 

 new, fresh undergrowth is set off by 

 fiery Indian-pink and the exquisite lav- 

 ender flowers of wild phlox and gera- 

 nium; when the fields are covered like 

 thin sheets of snow with honstenia, and 

 everywhere flourishes the composite 

 squaw-weed; — it is at this time of the 

 -year — early May — that we go into the 

 woods toward sunset and listen for the 

 love-song of the Oven-bird, and keep an 

 eye open for the inspired singer. 



To our left "teacher, teacher, teacher, 

 teacher, teacher," sounds the simple but 

 not unpleasing crescendo. From the 



right come the same gushing notes — 

 the same to exactitude. From the dis- 

 tance, like a rushing waterfall flood the 

 same notes. Oven-birds are everwhere. 

 The simple song of a redstart, the nasal 

 "zee-u, zee-u, ksee-ksee, ksee-ksee," of 

 a blue-gray gnatcatcher, and the rasping 

 song of a black and white warbler, re- 

 lieve what might otherwise be a monot- 

 ony. Suddenly a great flood of in- 

 describable melody is poured out from 

 the tree-tops. There is the lover, soar- 

 ing higher and higher, thrice as high as 

 the forest trees, dashing downward sud- 

 denly, and all the while pouring forth a 

 song not unlike the Louisiana water- 

 thrush's flight-song but even more 

 varied. Can it be that demure, sedate 

 little walker, who, but a moment before, 

 with so little energy opened his bill to let 

 forth his commonplace crescendo? It 

 is. Norman O. Foerster. 



