A WARBLER SHOWER. 



The rain was well over by one o 'clock on Thursday, 

 May fourth, and I started out to try the possibilities 

 of our back yard. The garden was alive with birds. 

 Yellow-rumped or myrtle warblers, which I had seen 

 in numbers on the meadows about Ferry Lane the day 

 before, were flitting everywhere. The spot on their 

 backs shone like a gold dollar, so that the air seemed 

 to be filled with flying coin. This bird is usually con- 

 sidered the first warbler to arrive, and as he possesses 

 three yellow patches beside his rump — one on each 

 side the breast and a stripe through the crown, his 

 uniform of slate-blue, black and white is enlivened 

 with a considerable amount of gold lace. Two or 

 three black and white warblers, which I call the zebra 

 bird, on account of his stripes, were scrambling up 

 and down the tree trunks. 



What is that graceful shape scurrying through the 

 wild cherry jungle near the fence? Ah, there is no 

 mistaking that aristocratic mien and that soft shade of 

 olive brown with the squirrel-red tail. It is the her- 

 mit thrush, the archangel of the feathered choir. How 

 true it is that all things come to him who waits. 



