SOME CLEVER WEAVERS 39 
“ 6 How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly 
In tropic splendor through our Northern sky? 
At some glad moment was it Nature’s choice 
To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice? 
Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, 
In some forgotten garden, ages back, 
Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, 
Desire unspeakably to be a bird? ’ ” 
—Edgar Fawcett. 
“ The orchard oriole is another clever little 
weaver,” Uncle John informed. “ She cannot 
equal her cousin Baltimore in craftsmanship, but 
yet she does very neat work. Her nest is never a 
swinging cradle; just a plain cup-like nest, of 
modest basket-work, placed securely in the fork 
of an apple tree. But the dried grasses are 
chosen with great care, and the strands, when 
unraveled and measured, have been found to be 
of almost equal length. So you see this little 
weaver is very skilful, and knows just the care 
and precision necessary to get the best results. 
You would enjoy watching her at work. But 
you will have to look sharp to catch her at it. 
She is even more demurely dressed than Mrs. 
Baltimore and shy to a degree that almost bor¬ 
ders on the recluse. Her husband, too, is more 
apt to be heard than seen. His voice is high and 
rich and full of a joyful brilliance that Bur¬ 
roughs says is like scarlet. He is clothed in rich 
velvety wine-red, where the Baltimore wears or- 
