this season I had my wish. Hearing 

 sounds in the tall ash tree on the high- 

 way, I stood under it and had to bend 

 my neck far backward to find the little 

 fellow in blue so short and chubby, 

 perched over the road on one of the 

 smaller branches. Cries of "here, here," 

 were sounding all over the great tree as 

 the mother called to them continually 

 but search as hard and long as I could, 

 till my neck ached, no other could be 

 found, but I knew they were there and 

 looked doubtless exactly like the one 

 still on his perch. He did not seem to 

 dare to move — it was his first trip doubt- 

 less and he was timid, seeing so much 

 space around him instead of the snug 

 woodpecker's hole in a dead branch 

 thirty-five feet from the ground. Every 

 season a pair of bluebirds would investi- 

 gate this apartment, clean and airy, and 

 free of rent, but for seven years I had 

 seen no couple occupy it. However it 

 had been the home of this "little brother 

 of the air" who left it the first oppor- 

 tunity he had, and never returned as so 

 many of our brothers do to see their 

 birthplace, step over the threshold and go 

 through the rooms of their early home. 

 The birds apparently do not sing, 

 "There's no such place as home." 



In late summer while walking on the 

 edge of the garden I spied a nest in an 

 old gnarled apple tree and heard the 

 cry of the tiny birds. Now, I thought, 

 I mean to watch and see the mother bird 

 feed her babies, so I stood at a respect- 

 ful distance and looked toward the nest, 

 but instead of seeing the bird feed her 

 brood saw her fly away and she had 

 quietly slipped in on the opposite side 

 of the nest. I moved to that side and the 

 same thing happened again. She had 

 seen me and dubbed me an intruder, yet 

 had not kept her babies waiting which 

 I considered a smart manoeuvre for a 

 chipping sparrow. 



But the little birds filled only a part 

 of the summer's observations. More 

 warblers came into view than any season 

 before ; the first was the black-poll warb- 

 ler on May third, black and white with ^ 

 a black cap. The year before a flock of 

 them stayed in our neighborhood for two 

 or llircc weeks and then went North. The 



warbler which resembles the black-poll 

 so closely, the black and white creeping 

 warbler, I saw two days later and many 

 times through the summer going up and 

 down the branches with its simple song 

 of zee-zee-zee. On the same day I saw 

 the black-throated green warbler, a 

 beauty in his attire and with a fuller 

 song. How many times I've listened to 

 it and, as Mr. Torrey did, imagined it 

 sang "trees, trees, murmuring trees," 

 and so appropriately, too, for it spends 

 the days in the pines mostly and builds 

 its wee nest in one. A little later, on the 

 seventh, I saw the chestnut-sided war- 

 bler with its yellow cap and chestnut 

 sides, a cheery songster, often seen sing- 

 ing on some birch tree. On the eleventh 

 as my neighbor and I were loitering by 

 the bridge over Pye Brook which sepa- 

 rates us and which is our common meet- 

 ing, ground to exchange notes or watch 

 for the latest arrivals we looked over 

 the bank and saw our very first black- 

 throated blue warbler on a dead branch 

 just below, quite different from his rela- 

 tives, of a beautiful blue. The oven- 

 bird was the next warbler on my list 

 and though so often heard he has to be 

 approached very cautiously for one to 

 obtain a view. 



The redstart seems to be a rare visi- 

 tor here, only twice have I seen one and 

 it was a sight to be remembered — the 

 tiny bird with its extremes of black and 

 salmon color, flirting its tail as if to show 

 off its beauty. One warbler, the Mary- 

 land yellow-throat, escaped me, though 

 usually seen every year in the bushes 

 which cover the meadow. 



I saw two more warblers in May, one 

 the common yellow bird with its bright 

 dress and pretty song and the other, the 

 rarest of all and most highly prized — 

 the Blackburnian warbler. I was lean- 

 ing over the brook where we watch the 

 water go down with a rush and a roar 

 over the rocks when the water which 

 floods the meadow is let down. The 

 vivid orange color first caught my eye 

 and I watched the little stranger, here 

 for only a few days, as he flew from one 

 tall tree to another unconscious of any 

 spectator and feasted my eyes on his 

 beauty. Once I saw one in an apple tree 



