114 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



I moved my arms slightly when the sunlight broke 

 through the clouds. Instantly the birds were on the 

 wing and out of sight. 



To a student of animal psychology this is no trivial 

 incident. There was a deliberate exercise of choice ; a 

 consultation between the birds, and a decision reached 

 and acted upon ; and all transpiring in less than one 

 minute. If not an exercise of true reasoning powers, 

 what shall we call it ? Certainly no mythical " instinct " 

 can be called up to explain such facts. 



The last bird that I saw to - day, and the least, was 

 probably the happiest ; for it evidently combined pleas- 

 ure with business. I watched for a full hour a dainty 

 little flycatcher, that when not busy was singing. Che"- 

 pink — Che-pink ! it warbled with a pretty toss of the 

 head, and then deftly sailed out for an insect. Not al- 

 ways out, but rather down ; for it often dived into a 

 thicket twenty feet below, and the sharp snap of its 

 beak told the story of an insect's capture. Then with 

 an easy, upward flight it regained its perch, and whis- 

 tled these two syllables, peculiarly its own, Che" -pink 

 — Che-pink ! It was Traill's flycatcher ; a bird that 

 comes and goes with the migratory hosts that summer 

 farther north ; but it likewise stays every summer and 

 haunts the tree-clad reaches of the Crosswicks valley. 



It is a common practice among those who delight 

 in studying our song birds, as they find them in their 

 chosen haunts, to class a very large number as " minor 

 songsters," giving them credit for good intentions rather 

 than meritorious performance. I confess to an entire 

 want of sympathy with those who draw such distinc- 



