A WINDOW STUDY. 
OWE THORNE MILDER. 
ONE of the best places to study 
birds is from behind the blinds 
of a conveniently-placed win- 
dow, where one can see with- 
out being seen. 
My window one July looked into 
the tops of tall spruce trees, relieved 
here and there by a pine, a birch, or a 
maple. This was the home of the 
most fascinating and the most bewild- 
ering of feathered tribes, the warblers, 
and a rugged old spruce tree was a 
favorite "Inn of Rest" for every bird 
in the vicinity. 
In all the years that I have known 
birds I have carefully avoided becom- 
ing interested in warblers, so tiny, so 
restless, so addicted to the upper 
branches, so every way tantalizing to 
study. But here, without intention on 
my part, fate had opened my windows 
into their native haunts, even into the 
very tree-tops where they dwell. "He 
strives in vain who strives with fate." 
After one protest I succumbed to their 
charms. 
My principal visitor was a beauty, 
like most of his distinguished family, 
having a bright yellow head, set off by 
a broad black band beginning at the 
throat and running far down the sides, 
and he bore the awkward name "black- 
throated green warbler." 
A bewitching and famous singer is 
this atom in black and gold. And not 
only is his song the sweetest and most 
winning, but the most unique, and — 
what is not generally known — the most 
varied. 
The song that has been oftenest 
noticed, and is considered characteris- 
tic of the species, is sometimes syllabled 
as "trees, trees, beautiful trees," some- 
times as "hear me Saint Theresa." 
But in my intimate acquaintance with 
some of the family that July I noted 
down from my window alone eight dis- 
tinctly different melodies. My special 
little neighbor, who spent hours every 
day in the old spruce, sang the regula- 
tion carol of his tribe, but he also in- 
dulged in at least one other totally un- 
like that. Those two I have heard and 
seen him sing, one directly after the 
other, but he may have had half a 
dozen arrangements of his sweet notes. 
Sometimes the mate of my spruce- 
tree neighbor appeared on the tree, 
going over the branches in a business- 
like way, and uttering a loud, sharp 
"chip." 
One morning there suddenly broke 
out in the old spruce a great clatter of 
"tick-et! tick-et!" in the voice of a 
nestling. I snatched my glass and 
turned it at once upon a much-excited 
warbler, my black-throated green. He 
was hopping about in a way unusual 
even with him, and from every side 
came the thread-like cries, while the 
swaying of twigs pointed out a whole 
family of little folk, scrambling about 
in warbler fashion and calling like big- 
ger bird babies for food. They were 
plainly just out of the nest, and then I 
studied my spruce-tree bird in a new 
role, the father of a family. 
He was charming in that as in every 
other, and he was evidently a "good 
provider," for I often saw him after 
that day going about in great anxiety, 
looking here and there and every- 
where, while a small green worm in the 
beak told plainly enough that he was 
seeking his wandering offspring. 
During the remainder of the month 
I frequently saw, and more frequently 
heard, the little family as they followed 
their busy parents around on the neigh- 
boring trees. 
One day I noted the singer flitting 
about the top of the spruce, singing 
most joyously, and almost as con- 
stantly as before the advent of the 
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