Conspicuously Yellow and Orange 



Among the best architects in the world is his plain but ener- 

 getic mate. Gracefully swung from a high branch of some tall 

 tree, the nest is woven with exquisite skill into a long, flexible 

 pouch that rain cannot penetrate, nor wind shake from its horse- 

 hair moorings. Bits of string, threads of silk, and sometimes 

 yarn of the gayest colors, if laid about the shrubbery in the garden, 

 will be quickly interwoven with the shreds of bark and milk- 

 weed stalks that the bird has found afield. The shape of the 

 nest often differs, because in unsettled regions, where hawks 

 abound, it is necessary to make it deeper than seven inches (the 

 customary depth when it is built near the homes of men), and to 

 partly close it at the top to conceal the sitting bird. From four 

 to six whitish eggs, scrawled over with black-brown, are hatched 

 by the mother oriole, and most jealously guarded by her now 

 truly domesticated mate. 



The number of grubs, worms, flies, caterpillars, and even 

 cocoons, that go to satisfy the hunger of a family of orioles in a 

 day, might indicate, if it could be computed, the great value these 

 birds are about our homes, aside from the good cheer they bring. 



There is a popular tradition about the naming of this gorgeous 

 bird: When George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, worn out 

 and discouraged by various hardships in his Newfoundland colony, 

 decided to visit Virginia in 1628, he wrote that nothing in the 

 Chesapeake country so impressed him as the myriads of birds 

 in its woods. But the song and color of the oriole particularly 

 cheered and delighted him, and orange and black became the 

 heraldic colors of the first lords proprietors of Maryland. 



Hush! 'tis he! 

 My Oriole, my glance of summer fire, 

 Is come at last; and ever on the watch, 

 Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound 

 About the bough to help his housekeeping. 

 Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck. 

 Yet fearing me who laid it in his way. 

 Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, 

 Divines the Providence that hides and helps. 

 Heave, bo! Heave, hoi he whistles as the twine' 

 Slackens its hold; once more, now I and a flash 

 Lightens across the sunlight to the elm 

 Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 



—James RusseU LowtO, 



2\* 



