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Blue Grosbeaks and Wild Geraniums 
By Mrs. ARTHUR B. Copy 
LISTENING in the evening to the whip-poor-wills, we planned to attend 
matins at dawn. There is always a thrill of anticipation in arranging 
for the next day because one never knows exactly what one may see 
or hear in Birdland. 
On these duneside trips, it is not necessary to take an alarm 
clock, Madame Henriette being so far superior to that noisy piece of 
mechanism-—quite as dependable and much less disturbing. How much 
more beautiful is her musical, rhythmic, yet insistent knock on the 
wall, which says unmistakably, “Four o’clock-—time to get up.” 
We slipped quietly down the stairs of the farm house—no one 
else stirring—and opened the door, all guiltless of a key; that is, 
there was one, but no one had cared to turn it in this peaceful spot. 
The world was a gray mist; a tall slender tree, white-blossomed, 
stood on the edge of the woods, clad in a gray shroud, and gave a 
haunted look to the place. Soon the sun dispelled the uncanny feeling, 
coming up rosily over the golden dunes. 
Thick about our favorite log seat for matins, was the pink wild 
geranium, or crane’s bill—-as many prefer to call it; very dainty in 
fine cut leaves. 
In this service, late in the month of June, we missed some of our 
May songsters. White crowns and white throats had been gone a long 
time, thrashers were present, but not singing; goldfinches somewhat 
subdued. Nevertheless there was a fine chorus; wood thrushes sang 
sweetly, and almost as much, as earlier in the season; catbirds were 
still giving lovely repeated melodies, as well as mocking half a dozen 
other birds; golden whistles of orioles as much as ever in evidence 
from the elms; field and song sparrows, too, and of course some tiny 
wrens. 
Bobolinks were in the meadow, their first rapture having abated; 
redstarts in the trees, spreading proudly and prettily their fan-like 
orange and black tails, their odd six to seven note melody (save the 
word!) with its last note suddenly dropped, added little of interest 
to the morning program. 
The Maryland yellow throats were singing much, and with them 
the mourning warblers, strangely named, for they are gay enough, in 
olive-green, yellow and only a touch of black. Blackburnian warblers 
flitted about in tall oaks, easy to see and identify, because of the 
highly dramatic dress of black and white and the gorgeous orange 
tiroat, but as to music—yjust nothing at all. 
The chebec, the tiny flycatcher, was announcing himself, so that 
there should be no mistake as to his identity; the sad wood pewee 
was doing likewise. There were green crests, members of the same 
family, and many of their big cousins, the kingbirds, with white 
breasts and square or slightly rounded tails. This bird is supposed 
From Birds and Blossoms, Copyrighted 1925 by Mrs. Arthur B. Cody. 
