A LABRADOR SPRING 
lets and robins. On the thirteenth of June 
I again sought the ravine, and photographed 
from the same spot the much dwindled snow- 
bank around which the alders, birches and 
mountain ashes were unfolding their leaves. 
The woods were far from silent, as they had 
been nine days before. Pipits and snow bunt- 
ings had departed for more northern regions, 
but, in addition to the other birds found 
before, the woods were full of warblers. Black- 
polls were everywhere, lisping their simple, 
lazy songs; brilliant magnolia warblers and 
redstarts displayed their yellows and reds and 
blacks, and sang unceasingly; Wilson’s war- 
blers, jet black in cap, elsewhere bright yellow, 
appeared undisturbed by my presence and 
sang at close range; a rare — for these parts — 
Nashville warbler gave vent to the emotions 
of his heart from a clump of mountain ash 
sprouts, and, lastly, from among this gentle 
band of warblers, a Maryland yellow-throat 
not only sang from some bushes, but in the 
intensity of his passion was borne aloft to the 
level of the next terrace, and dove to earth 
again, filling the air with a confusing and sur- 
prising explosion of his calls and songs. 
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