trees, the shelter, in winter and summer, 

 of hosts of songsters. 



In the elm an oriole has hung his nest, 

 and every hour of the day he flashes 

 through its branches like a flaming spirit. 

 Next after the robins' songs, in the early 

 morning, comes his clear whistle, ending 

 with "Just see here !" in a whistling stac- 

 cato. 



The most in evidence of all the birds 

 is the robin. If you sleep on the side of 

 the house toward the orchard, you will 

 be aware, about half past three, of his 

 twitter here and there through the trees ; 

 and presently, one bolder, or wider awake 

 than the others, bursts into song. Soon 

 another, and then another follows. Per- 

 haps you drop off to sleep, and suddenly 

 you are awakened by a perfect volley of 

 song from a thousand robin-throats, you 

 are sure. 



Two hours from then, when you are 

 sitting down to breakfast, you notice a 

 score or less of robins breakfasting in 

 full view upon the back lawn. Just 

 watch them turning their heads on one 

 side and bending close to the ground to 

 listen to the silent steps of the earth- 

 worm ! Then dab goes their bill into the 

 soft earth, and up comes Mr. Worm ! 



Robin Redbreast has already fledged 

 one nest full of cavern-mouthed infants 

 and I think he is starting his second nest 

 over our wood shed door. He chose the 

 chip-yard where the chickens scratch, for 

 the dumping ground of his babies, much 

 to their sorrow, as it turned out ; for the 

 hens waged war on the poor little fledg- 

 lings as soon as they appeared. But the 

 concerted action of all the robins and 

 blackbirds in the neighborhood put the 

 hens to rout forthwith, and poor little 

 robin was left to the care of his elders, 

 to be guided down into the creek lot, 

 where low, bushy trees, and fresh water, 

 and the early worm, and seclusion have 

 created a paradise there for fledglings. 



Up in the orchard the airy gold-finch 

 has begun to dart his zig-zag lines and 

 call his merry chick-o-ree. The dear lit- 

 tle yellow warblers have come, too, and 

 one of them graces my breakfast with his 



exquisite ditties. Mrs. Yellow Warbler 

 has built her a home just around the cor- 

 ner, in the honeysuckle on the porch. 

 She does not know that I had slyly 

 dropped the combings of my hair from 

 the chamber window for her especial 

 benefit, but she has cunningly woven 

 them, gray hairs and all, into her dainty 

 nest. 



Occasionally Chickadee makes a call 

 at the orchard and spends a few minutes 

 gossipping. I have accused her of hid- 

 ing her nest in the lower part of the or- 

 chard, down a little declivity, where the 

 tree-trunks are knot-holey and the 

 branches are thick, and the noises of 

 man are comparatively far away. Mr. 

 Frank Chapman says he has been so for- 

 tunate as to have a chickadee light on his 

 hand. So have I, and they took hickory- 

 nut meats from my fingers. One even 

 lit upon my head. I feel myself set apart 

 as great in the bird world in consequence. 



I must not forget the numerous spar- 

 rows that make their home here. Most 

 numerous and noisiest is the English 

 sparrow, but he was born without a spark 

 of romance, so we will skip him. The 

 grasshopper sparrow, chippy," and song 

 sparrow fill up all the vacant nesting 

 places. They mostly take the outskirts 

 of this bird town, where they can hear 

 the creek gurgling, and can soar away to 

 hidden haunts. 



"Peace, peace, be unto you, my little 

 children," is the benediction which the 

 Oberlin girl has translated for us from 

 the strain of the song sparrow, and 

 peace indeed he leaves with us from the 

 very loveliness of his song. 



Somewhere in the orchard, though I 

 can't tell where, a wren has a hidden re- 

 treat, from which he appears to give us 

 a scolding or a merry ditty. 



Only a week ago the catbird made his 

 notable appearance as prima donna of the 

 orchard, and now the whole place is 

 turned into a concert hall with all sorts 

 of musical instruments and occasionally 

 a cat-call when bird temper gets the bet- 

 ter of good nature. 



Amanda M. E. Booth. 



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