little people usually build their nests in 

 the skunk cabbage plants, indicating that 

 they must have an abnormal odor sense, 

 but perhaps they allow their sense of safe- 

 ty to overcome their sense of smell. How- 

 ever, this pair of yellow-throats have 

 built instead, among some thickly matted 

 Elders, just above the ground. 



Another fact that favors our orchard 

 in bird minds, is its close proximity to a 

 thickly foliaged ravine which affords such 

 delightful security to feathered people. 

 It is also a charming background for 

 our sunny orchard, filled in below, as it 

 is, with tall, ghostly stalks* of black co- 

 hosh gleaming white in the shadows. 



Near by, upon a bit of high ground, 

 quivers a group of prim American as- 

 pens, the pale green of their bark gleam- 

 ing against the dark shadows of a hem- 

 lock hedge. As we look at them, not a 

 leaf is in motion, when all of a sudden one 

 little leaf begins to gesticulate frantically, 

 throwing itself about with violent wild- 

 ness, then another leaf catches the enthu- 

 siasm of the soft summer air, then an- 

 other, and another until all of the trees 

 are a mass of gesticulating, seething little 

 serrated atoms, for all the world like a 

 congregation of human beings, vociferat- 

 ing, demonstrating, or contradicting 

 some poor little human leaf that has dared 

 to be moved by some passing thought in 

 advance of his fellow kind. Darting 

 through the quivering foliage comes a 

 gleam of fire, which resolves itself into a 

 scarlet tanager who calls to us, "look- 

 see," demanding our attention to his 

 bright beauty, remembering possibly that 

 his brilliant coloring is but a thing of 

 short duration, for too soon will come 

 winter and plain clothes. Perched upon 

 a fence rail, but somewhat out of place 

 in this shady corner, sits a blatant 

 meadow lark, about whose golden breast 

 is hung a gleaming neck chain and locket 

 of shining black feathers, of which, from 

 the pert poise of his head,, we deem him 

 justly proud, and he is at least a con- 

 spicuous spot of color against the green 

 of the hillside. He eye9 us impertinently 

 as he inconsistently but musically calls to 

 us, "You-can't-see-me, You-can't-see- 

 me," in the face of the most contradictory 

 evidence of his own conspicuousness, 



varying his song to "Erie-lake-Erie, " 

 with every other breath. As a child I 

 used to wonder who taught him the name 

 of the great lake on whose borders he 

 makes his summer home. But to other 

 people, other interpretations, for to 

 Neltje Blanchan he says "Spring-o'-the- 

 year, spring-o'-the-year," and to Frank 

 Chapman his song i9 a bar of high, trill- 

 ing notes. Sing on, you wary warbler, 

 for we have not time to search out your 

 carefully hidden nest among the timothy 

 grasses of the distant meadow, for we 

 know that it would be like looking for the 

 pearl in the oyster, so carefully is it con- 

 cealed among the dried grasses, but which 

 snakes and field mice depredate so effec- 

 tually. In the distant valley we hear the 

 soft echo of the Italian liquids of the 

 wood thrush's "A-o-le-le, a-oa-o-le." Shy 

 little songster, who so sweetly trills to 

 us long after his feathered kind have 

 tucked their busy little bills away in soft 

 wings. Across the orchard comes* the ro- 

 mantic "Coo-coo-coo-coo," sometimes 

 interpreted into "I-thou-thou-thou," of 

 the purple plumaged mourning dove, 

 starting out on a high minor and softly 

 falling to a low contralto. There are no 

 more delightful representatives of roman u 

 tic bird love, than these birds illustrate. 

 More frequently than in any other species 

 you see the devoted pair going about to- 

 gether, on the telegraph wire, on the tree 

 top, on the wing, always together, undu- 

 lating their graceful necks with marked 

 devotion. Many a bird lover has criti- 

 cised Mr. Dove for his remarkable fond- 

 ness for a lady who is a so decidedly slack 

 housekeeper, and who is satisfied with so 

 shiftless a nest in which to deposit the 

 two white eggs, for the few carelessly 

 thrown together sticks can prove any- 

 thing but a bed of down to the tender bird 

 babies. However, perhaps these roman- 

 tic birds consider that "love is enough" 

 as they follow Le Gallienne's refrain of : 



" The bird of life is singing- on the bough, 

 His two eternal notes of * I and Thou ' — 

 Oh, hearken well, for soon the song sings 

 through 



And would we hear it, we must hear it 

 now." 



Alberta A. Field. 



157 



