on the ground in the darkest recesses of 

 his favorite swamps, rambhng about over 

 the decaying leaves or among the rank 

 water plants in search of the small beet- 

 les which constitute his principal food." 

 When singing, the bird assumes ah easy 

 pose and rarely moves while uttering its 

 "ringing whistles, the first four uttered 

 rather slowly and in the same key, the 

 remaining five or six given more rapidly, 

 and in an evenly descending scale." Mr. 

 Brewster is enthusiastic regarding this 

 song and says : "It is very loud, very 

 rich, very beautiful, while it 'has an inde- 

 scribably tender quality that thrills the 

 senses after the sound has ceased." 



It is not surprising that this wonder- 

 fully interesting Warbler was so nearly 

 lost for SO' many years, when we under- 

 stand that most of its Hfe is passed in the 

 deepest quiet and in the seclusion of 

 almost unpassable thickets. When upon 

 the ground, too, its color harmonizes so 

 perfectly with that of its environment 

 that an observer may easily fail to note 

 its presence. If, however, the bird is 

 singing, its song is ''so remarkable that 

 ii can scarcely fail to attract the dullest 

 car, while it is not likely to be soon for- 

 gotten." 



THE BREAKING OF THE GROUND. 



When Spring is filled with signs of life new-stirred. 

 The starting leaf, the martial call of bird, 

 Then through the land the plowman takes his way 

 Breaking the sodden ground from day to day. 

 Planning, " Here will I plant, and there will sow, 

 Here shall the billowy stretch of corn-field grow." 



No thought of drought, of sudden storm-cloud black 

 With onslaught leaving ruin in its track, 

 Flits through his mind, or bids him deviate 

 From turning down the furrow, long and straight. 

 The clanking harness and the moving plow 

 With strong farm-horses, are his comrades now. 



The smell of soil upturned, the curious crow 

 Who follows down the furrows, row on row, 

 The rush of loosened waters in the vale, 

 The sound of horn, the distant echoing hail, 

 All seem to blend with the unceasing round 

 Of this one task, the breaking of the ground. 



— Cora A. Matson Dolson. 



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