THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 53 



now more than ever inspired and glowing with the 

 master passion. 



On a road that crosses a swampy wooded tract 

 I have suddenly halted to listen to a full, round, 

 mellow warble, sounded almost overhead high up 

 in the branches of an old willow. For a long 

 time the singer remains there, repeating his 

 roundelay at half-minute intervals, but he is so 

 hidden by the thick foliage that it is impossible to 

 obtain a good view of him. What skillful min- 

 strel is this, playing upon such a silver-toned 

 trumpet .' Surely I have never heard the like 

 before. In what colors is he dressed .■■ Is he a 

 straggler from the South or West, ranging these 

 woods to surprise the natives .■' These questions 

 I try to answer by various manoeuverings, when a 

 small bird emerges from the thick leaves, and 

 with wavy flight wings his way to the top of a 

 white birch, a short distance off. He is so full of 

 music that before he has fairly reached his next 

 perch some of the liquid notes have drifted from 

 his bill into the air. From this angle of vision, 

 and in a good light, he is caught at last. A bird 

 with black cheeks bordered above with light gray, 

 a yellow throat, an olive back and a rounded tail. 

 Why, it is the Maryland yellow-throat, after all! 

 Who would have suspected that he could have 

 learned such delicious strains, or that the habit of 

 this humble warbler of bush and brake could 



