AN ORCHARD BIRD-WAY. 



" A rodless Walton of the brooks, 

 A bloodless sportsman I; 



I hunt for the thoughts that throng- the woods, 

 The dreams that haunt the sky." 



— Samuel Walter Foss. 



An isolated orchard certainly comes 

 very near being an inner sanctuary of 

 bird life. For some reason or other, the 

 gnarled old trees and matted June grass 

 touch either the practical or artistic 

 sense of bird nature very closely, and ap- 

 peal strongly to many a bird heart, for 

 therein do congregate all sorts and con- 

 ditions of feathered life. Probably it is 

 an exceptional feeding-ground, for the 

 curled and misshapen leaves testify to 

 the abundance of the hairy caterpillar and 

 leaf-worm supply, which proves such de- 

 lectable tidbit to the bird palate. When 

 I see the birds feasting upon these unsa- 

 vory looking morsels, I can but wonder 

 at the unregenerate farmer who so loudly 

 decries the bird as a fruit-destroyer, when 

 a few hours' observation will teach him 

 that to one cherry stolen there are a 

 hundred tree destroyers gobbled up, and 

 a thousand weed seeds devoured. It is 

 Wilson Flagg who so curtly says : 



"The fact, not yet understood in Amer- 

 ica, that the birds which are the most mis- 

 chievous as consumers of fruit are the 

 most useful as destroyers of insects, is 

 well known by all the farmers of Europe ; 

 and while we destroy the birds to save the 

 fruit, and sometimes cut down the fruit 

 trees to starve the birds, the Europeans 

 more wisely plant them for their suste- 

 nance and accommodation." 



Our orchard is surrounded by a fence 

 of weather-stained chestnut rails, whose 

 punctured surface has been the scene of 

 many a worm tragedy resulting in the 

 survival of the fittest. We enter through 

 a pair of lichen-covered bars, grey-tinted 

 and sobered by age. How far less pictur- 

 esque is our field and hedgerow when in- 

 closed by that inhuman human invention, 

 a barbed-wire fence, and trim swing gate. 

 To be neat and up to date, is never to be 

 picturesque, and seldom to be artistic. 

 But our quiet entrance into the orchard 

 has caused something of a disturbance 



among the inhabitants, if no great alarm. 

 Fluttering hastily to a convenient tree 

 top goes a dainty red-eyed vireo, who 

 seems to me to have more of a grey than 

 olive gleam to his shining back. As he 

 alights upon the topmost bough — 



"A bird's bright gleam on me he bent, 

 A bird's glance, fearless, yet discreet," 



but to show that he is in no way seriously 

 alarmed he flings down to us some sweet 

 notes of liquid song. It is Wilson Flagg, 

 I believe, that has dubbed him the 

 Preacher, but to me he seems more cor- 

 rectly termed the Lover, for I can but in- 

 terpret his accentuated notes into "Sweet 

 Spirit, Sweet — Sweet — Spirit," a contin- 

 uous cry, as it were, of loving eulogy to 

 the devoted little wife who is so carefully 

 hidden in her pocket nest in a distant 

 thorn tree. But all of this time we under- 

 stand his clever machinations, as he care- 

 fully leads us in an opposite direction by 

 his song allurements. He flits from tree 

 to tree with a naive turn and flutter, keep- 

 ing upon us all the time, an eye alert and 

 keen, until he deems us at a safe distance 

 enough to be left to our own clumsy de- 

 vice, when, with a quick turn, he wheels 

 backward to the starting-point, and we 

 hear a triumphant praise call to the be- 

 loved "Sweet Spirit." Near a corner of 

 the old orchard where there are great 

 bunches of Elder and Sumach, we hear 

 vehemently stitching, a busy little Mary- 

 land yellow throat, doing up his summer 

 song work with an energetic "Stitch-a- 

 wiggle, Stitch-a-wiggle, Stitch-a-wiggle, 

 stitch 'em," the "stitch 'em" brought out 

 with such emphatic force that it seems 

 the last satisfactory utterance of a work 

 accomplished. His pert vivacity has been 

 most delightfully illustrated by Ernest 

 Seton-Thompson, in Frank Chapman's 

 "Bird Life," and I am sure the snap-shot 

 caught him on his last accentuated "stitch 

 'em." Dr. Abbot tells us that these busy 



