at this season that we are apt to meet 

 him. One recognizes him by his clear 

 greenish-yellow crown and by the clearly 

 defined chestnut streak on either side of 

 his white vest. 



Of course the Lord of the Manor is 

 the Blackburnian warbler. To my great 

 delight, he brought his wonderful flam- 

 ing breast within four feet of me as I 

 sat in one of the upper windows, watch- 

 ing him explore the branches. Mark 

 him well. His upper parts are black, 

 while his crown, throat and breast are 

 flaming orange. He, too, wears a white 

 vest, marked at the sides with black. So 

 beautiful is he that words fail to de- 

 scribe him, while to see him flitting about 

 among the apple blossoms was indeed 

 "a picture no artist could paint." 



The next on my list was a discovery, 

 and one over which I was jubilant. He 

 was an elusive little fellow, and led me 

 out into the rain and kept me standing 

 there with the drops trickling down my 

 face as I searched the branches for him. 

 He was the daintiest sprite imaginable, 

 whose blue-gray coat was like satin and 

 whose white breast shading from a yel- 

 low throat could not make him conspicu- 

 ous. It was only when I discovered that 

 his back was a beautiful shade of bronzy- 

 greenish-yellow that I knew he was the 

 parula warbler, the blue yellow back. 

 Then I went to the authorities to learn 

 more about my stranger. Then I read 

 that he wears another distinguishing 

 mark, a brown streak across the throat. 

 Back to the garden I went. Eureka ! he 

 satisfied all conditions, and was named ! 

 During this shower of warblers the pa- 

 rula was the most numerous species, ex- 

 cepting, perhaps, the chestnut sided. 



A redstart came in for its share of ad- 

 miration, and his beauty deserved it, but 

 his evident appreciation of his own 

 charms as he dashed here and there, 

 opening and closing his fan-like tail, 

 rather detracted from his character as he 

 was viewed alongside his beautiful com- 

 panions, who, to say the least, are mod- 

 estly unaware of their charms. 



Later, another discovery was made, 

 and one that puzzled us for some time. 

 At the first glimpse of him we said, 



"Chickadee, of course," for we saw his 

 black cap and his general black and 

 white aspect. Then as he flew to a tree 

 near the window, and we marked every 

 point possible, we found that his back 

 was closely striped with black and white, 

 that his breast and belly were white, and 

 that his wings were tinged with olive 

 and had two white bars. We could not 

 name him, and to my amazement Miss 

 Wilcox did not have such a one in her 

 ''Common Land Birds of New England." 

 so not until I went to "Birdcraft" did I 

 learn that my visitor was the black poll 

 warbler. He was always intent upon his 

 own affairs, seemed rather superior to 

 the common herd, and was the last one 

 of the visitation to leave me. 



The Maryland yellow throat was 

 here, too, away from his native alders, 

 but. seemingly not one bit confused 

 to find himself an orchard bird. Per- 

 haps he was only "going a piece" 

 with his relatives and connections as 

 they journeyed north. He is a beauty, 

 and you may hear him in any alder 

 swamp calling "witchy-titchy, witchy- 

 titchy." 



I searched and searched for the black 

 and white creeper whom we often see, 

 but evidently he did not like a mixed 

 crowd, for I did not discover him until 

 several days later, when the main flock 

 had passed on. The rest, however, were 

 on every side, and so tame and confiding 

 were they that a raised sash, or an ecsta- 

 tic shout to a watcher at another window 

 did not appear to disturb them in the 

 least. 



They were voiceless, though, intent 

 upon nothing but dinner, except the red- 

 start, who seemed to take settlement life 

 as somewhat of a joke and, as he 

 careered about, occasionally called to 

 "sweet, sweeter, sweet." 



So the day passed, a continual surprise 

 party, and the next day came, and still 

 the flock lingered. But when the rain 

 ceased, and the sun reappeared, they 

 lifted their wings and hastened to pas- 

 tures new, leaving only a straggler here 

 and there. Will a spring rain this year 

 find them passing over my apple trees? 

 So may it be. Grace E. Harlow. 



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