144 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 
A daily walk leads me past two wide-spreading elms 
that overhang the street. In June, for the last two or 
three years, in each of these a pair of warbling vireos 
have had a nest, and each fall, months after the young 
have flown away, the old birds come back to visit the 
place, and for several days their low sweet warble may 
be heard near the spot where the little empty nests are 
hanging. They come in pairs, male and female, show- 
ing that they have not dissolved their marital relations, 
as birds by many are supposed to do immediately after 
the young leave the nest. I know almost the very 
morning on which J shall first hear them, so regular are 
their visits in the autumn. During these few days the 
singers are sure to have a delighted listener, who loiters 
long under these trees which they have invested with 
such interest. I regard them almost as reverently as 
the ancients did the old talking oaks, which were sup- 
posed to reveal hidden mysteries to those whom the 
gods favored. What brings these creatures back to 
their old haunts, and what lands have they visited dur- 
ing their absence of so many weeks? Do they come to 
see if their pensile nests are still swinging on the sway- 
ing boughs on which they hung them so long ago? Do 
they wish to take another look at the dear place where 
they wooed and mated, and where their precious little 
families were watched and tended with such constant 
and loving care, or are they—provident little creatures 
that they are—looking for a site and planning the 
building of their next year’s cottage before leaving 
to winter in a summer clime? These are questions to 
