FEATHERED GEMS 



were a sin to stay under a roof and behind glass on one 

 of these rare May warbler days. 



No sooner had I set foot even upon the piazza than 

 my eye caught the flash as of rubies, and there, in the 

 larch tree on the front lawn were a little company of 

 half a dozen Bay-breasts, the first I had seen in several 

 years. In the clump of honeysuckle bushes was a 

 flashy Magnolia Warbler busily looking for his break- 

 fast. From the Norway spruces bordering the street 

 I heard a snatch of unfamiliar song, and there was the 

 first and only Cape May Warbler I had ever met, a 

 beautiful adult male, whose distinguishing mark was 

 the tan — I almost said sun-burn — of his cheeks. The 

 shade trees rang with the joyous notes of the Redstart, 

 that flame of a bird — and for that matter with a perfect 

 babel of other bird-notes and songs, of Robins, Orioles, 

 Vireos, Purple Finches, Grosbeaks, Wrens, Grackles, 

 and others. The orchard was a place of delight. 

 Parula Waxblers, with their bright hues of blue and 

 yellows were fluttering before the blossoms; Myrtle 

 Warblers were making sallies for flies from the bower 

 of petals; Black-throated Greens, more leisurely in 

 motions, were droning out their soporific little ditty. 

 To make more brilliant the occasion, the common but 

 conspicuous Yellow Warbler had loaned us his charms, 

 as had also the spectacular and rarer Blackburnian. 



It was fortunate for Ned that he did not have to 

 attend school that day, so we started off to see how 

 many kinds of warblers we could note for the day's 



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