38 IN BIRD LAND. 



denly stopped, poised a moment airily, wheeled 

 about, and plunged downward headlong with a 

 swiftness that made my head swim, closing the de- 

 scent with a series of bounds, as if he were going 

 down an aerial stairway. Whether he performed 

 this feat in pursuit of an insect, or to display his 

 skill, or only to give vent to his exuberance of 

 feeling, I am unable to say. 



The red-head has an odd way of taking a bath 

 during a light shower, which he does by clinging 

 lengthwise to an upright or oblique branch, fluffing 

 up his plumes as much as possible, and then flapping 

 ills wings slowly back and forth, thus allowing the 

 refreshing drops thoroughly to percolate and rinse 

 his handsome feathers. And, by the way, the subject 

 of bird baths is one of no small degree of interest 

 to the ogler of the feathered creation. It has been 

 my good fortune to see a brilliant company of 

 warblers of various species — lyrics in color, one 

 might call them — performing their ablutions at a 

 small pond in the woods. How their iridescent 

 hues flashed and danced in the sunshine, as they 

 dipped their dainty bosoms into the water, twinkled 

 their wings, and fluttered their tails, sending the 

 spray like pearl-mist into the air ! One sylvan pic- 

 ture like that is worth many a mile's tramping. 



I once saw several myrtle warblers taking a dew- 

 bath. Do you wonder how they did it? They 

 leaped from a twig in the trees upon the dew-covered 

 leaves, — it was early morning, — and fluttered about 

 until their plumes were thoroughly drenched, then 



