AT LINDEN BEND. 15 



regained its proper position within a few inches of the 

 point where its downward course commenced. 



The redstart gave place to a much rarer and no less 

 interesting little bird — the yellow-bellied fly-catcher. It 

 came, scolded, sulked, and was about to depart, when it 

 was joined by another, possibly its mate, if so be it, like 

 some birds, they remain mated from season to season. 

 These were silent, so far as true singing goes, yet were 

 sufficiently lively to recall another pair I saw in June, 

 to which I was attracted by their loud chattering. On 

 a near approach, I found them bobbing their heads, flut- 

 tering their wings, and impatiently dancing in a manner 

 that gave unmistakable evidence of a very far from am- 

 icable dispute. Their noise, indeed, brought other birds 

 to the scene, and soon a number of summer warblers, 

 song-sparrows, titmice, and cat-birds, were hopping about 

 the trees and underbrush, intent upon learning all the 

 particulars, or pretending to know them. It most vivid- 

 ly recalled the apparently instant appearance of every 

 woman in the village when my horse ran away and land- 

 ed me in the duck-pond on the common. Had I not re- 

 sisted, my escape from the waters of the pond would have 

 been promptly followed by drowning in a deluge of house- 

 hold liniments, camphor, balsam-apple, and hartshorn. 



Among the many birds I have mentioned, curiosity 

 cropped out, just as it did among lower animals, not an 

 hour ago. 



At last, the fly-catchers' quarrel came to an end. One 

 of them remained comparatively quiet, while the other, 

 as if rejoicing over a victory, sung, in his own quaint 

 manner, " Chesapeake, O Chesapeake I" 



