9<5 
Brewster on Southern Birds. 
the two began a game of hide-and-seek around the trunk and 
among the branches, uttering a rolling wor* r* r* roo very like that 
of a Flicker. 
Forcing my way through the brambly outskirts, I entered the 
swamp and paused a moment to look around. Grand old water- 
oaks and sweet-gums thickly hung with Spanish moss cast a 
dense shade over the ground beneath, and the few sunbeams 
that struggled through flickered in the gloom like dying torches. 
There was little undergrowth, and the eye could penetrate far 
in every direction. In the branches above Blue Yellow-backed 
Warblers were singing incessantly, and occasionally the note of 
a Great-crested Flycatcher echoed sharply among the trees. 
There were other sounds ; the rolling tapping of Woodpeckers, 
the shrill cry of the Blue Jay ; and, from the clearing outside, 
pleasantly softened by distance, the songs of Mockingbirds and 
Cardinal Grosbeaks. 
Passing deeper into the forest I came to an opening where the 
morning sun lay warm on a thicket of bushes that surrounded a 
shallow pool. Here I found an interesting little company of 
tired migrants resting after the fatigues of their last night’s jour- 
ney and preparing for that still before them. There were six or 
eight Hooded Warblers, all males in full spring livery, a num- 
* ber of Worm-eating Warblers, a female Prothonotary Warbler, 
and several Ruby-crowned Kinglets and Redstarts. All were 
busily engaged in catching insects, but occasionally one of them 
would pause to sing a few notes in a listless undertone. The 
Prothonotary was the first that I had ever met with, and it was 
the only one that I saw at St. Mary’s. The Hooded and Worm- 
eating Warblers were common for a week or more afterwards, 
when all departed for some more northern breeding-ground. 
During subsequent visits to the “ Bay-gall” I met many inter- 
esting birds, several of which were new to me. Occasionally I 
would startle a Chuck-will’s-widow from its noonday slumbers 
on some mossy knoll, and if a chance shot through the leaves 
succeeded in stopping its erratic, bat-like flight, there was the 
pleasure of smoothing its soft plumage and admiring the rich 
brown coloring before consigning the bird to the paper wrapper 
that formed its temporary tomb. I believe I never shot one with- 
out indulging myself in this way. There is much to be learned, 
too, from the examination of a freshly-killed bird. For instance, 
i 
