I started to go, when from the same 

 spot overhead came a loud, clear double 

 note, and again I waited. 



"Meow! meow!" remarked my new 

 friend. 



"How stupid of me!" said I. "I 

 might have known it was Mr. Catbird." 

 But immediately there came a glo- 

 rious trill — first over my head, then 

 almost under my feet, then at my 

 right hand, then at my left; though 

 there was no flutter of wings or other 

 sound in all the jungle. At last the 

 fallen branch upon which I had been 

 sitting gave way and I went into the 

 swamp with a splash of mud. "Look 

 out, look out!" came a sarcastic voice 

 from the tree top. 



"It is an escaped Poll-parrot," said I, 

 to reassure myself, but I took out my 

 handkerchief and mopped my heated 

 brow. The unknown then proceeded 

 to bark like a dog, quack like a duck, 

 and squeal like a pig, with occasionally 

 a measure of song in between. At last 

 in desperation I seized a young sapling 

 near at hand and shook it with all my 

 might, thinking - to frighten him into 

 showing himself. 



"Haw-haw-haw!" rang out clearly 

 from the top of the very sapling itself. 



"That is no bird," I announced to the 

 swamp; "it is an imp of the forest try- 

 ing to lure me to destruction in the 

 jungle," and I turned and fled. 



I felt better when I met a cotton-tail 

 rabbit, though he did not stop to be 

 greeted; and still better when 1 reached 

 the sunlight and the pink and white 

 laurel pasture; and when I neared the 

 bars and saw my horse grazing pa- 

 tiently on the other side, I was quite 

 myself again. On an upright stake at 

 the side of the bars sat a strange, yel- 

 lowish bird. I did not know him, fori 

 had not so many bird friends then as I 

 have now. Suddenly he rose in the air 



with a shriek, his legs dangling help- 

 lessly. "Is this a magical pasture," I 

 said to myself, "where birds are shot 

 without the report of a gun?" and then 

 with legs still dangling, he made a 

 beautiful gyration in the air, and calling 

 out: "That's it — that's it— tut — tut — 

 tut!" disappeared in the direction of 

 the thicket. This was my first attend- 

 ance upon one of the remarkable per- 

 formances of Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat, 

 and I can without hesitation pronounce 

 it the most wonderful in all bird-dom. 



The next day I invited some skepti- 

 cal friends to prove the truth of my 

 story. So at the same time of day we 

 drove up the long hills till we spied the 

 pink and white of the laurel, and halted 

 at the gray bars. The pasture which 

 had been deserted the day before, was 

 now spotted with cows, the laurel had 

 begun to fade, and though we waited 

 one long, weary hour, not a sight or 

 sound of a bird of any description did 

 we see. The towhee and the shore lark 

 whom I had seen the day before, 

 seemed to have dropped out of exist- 

 ence, and those disagreeable people 

 hinted that even the brown thrasher 

 was a myth. But as I ventured alone 

 into the dark swamp, hoping still to 

 stir up Mr. Chat, I came face to face 

 with the beautiful purple-fringed orchis 

 — the large, early variety — blooming 

 alone in the damp thicket, so straight 

 and stately, and of such a delicate, re- 

 fined beauty, I fell on my knees beside 

 it, and felt it to be ample compensation 

 for any disappointments. So you see 

 it is true that there is not wealth enough 

 in all the world to force a bird-song at 

 the moment when you want it, but at 

 the same time and in the same swamp 

 the purple orchis may be blooming for 

 you. 



Nell Kimberly McElhone. 



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