m 



THE YELLOW-THROAT 



JUST below the brow of Marquam Hill, half a mile 

 above the creek, a little spring bubbles out of an 

 alder copse. Instead of trickling down the hillside like 

 an ordinary streamlet, the water scatters and sinks into 

 the spongy soil; it forms a wet place an acre or so in 

 extent, over which has sprung up a rich growth of swamp 

 grass. This is the Yellow-throat's {Geothlypis trichas 

 occidentalis) home. I call it the witches' garden. 



There's a fascination about lying in the shade of the 

 alders on the brow of the hill. Overhead on the top 

 branches of the maple, is the favorite perch of a meadow 

 lark, who never fails to rear a brood of singers each sea- 

 son. He scatters his notes downward as the wind of au- 

 tumn whirls the red and gold-tinted leaves. A flicker 

 rattles his salute from the hollow top of a fir stump. A 

 grosbeak trills a roundelay that fairly sparkles in the sun- 

 shine. But none of these charm me like the fanciful call 

 of the yellow-throat. You may hear him almost any time 

 of the day calling, " Witch-et-y ! Witch-et-y! Witch- 

 et-y ! " Yes, you may hear him, but seldom see him. 



I never know just when yellow-throat will return in 

 the spring or when he is going to depart in the fall. You 

 may hear him one day and find your garden tenantless the 

 following. Then, after a long silence, you wake up some 



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