Pehee haw Der BOON SB UcL Len INL N 13 
birds. Young robins are heavy, phlegmatic, clumsy and have little to say 
beyond a fluttering of their wings and opening to its limit their yellow 
leathery throats. Those in the grape vine nest have done nothing for ten 
days but sleep and eat; now they are picking at their feathers and looking 
around, occasionally stretching their wings and leg's in their crowded quar- 
ters. When full grown they become more active and tag after their parents 
with a nagging little cry until I should think the mother would cuff their 
ears, but she doesn’t. 
If the spirit of play is given to all young things, the birds have it too; 
I know the robins have. For a half an hour I watched a young one amuse 
himself by the ravine pool, jumping forward and picking up a small stick, 
flipping it in the air and running after it when it fell a foot away. Time 
after time he tweaked the stick about until it fell in the water. In he 
waded, jabbed at his plaything and threw it out. Next a dry oak leaf 
caught his attention and he whisked that about for a while. Then, as if 
warm from his exercise, he waded into the pool and had a good bath, 
splashing the water so vigorously that it could be heard some distance 
away. On a low limb of an overhanging beech, I left him combing his 
feathers with his bill and shaking his mussed plumage into the semblance 
of a neat bird. 
The wren babies are very active, nervous and noisy. They ruffle them- 
selves into little round balls until they look a third larger than their trim 
parents. Every instant while waiting for food, they utter a sharp buzzing 
“ezst”’ like the cicada’s drill broken into bits. 
Young catbirds show the highly nervous organization of their parents 
and are insistent for food when the parents are in sight; left alone, they 
subside into a semi-alert position like a cocked rifle ready to fire at the 
first whir of wings. 
It has always seemed a privilege just to see a Baltimore oriole fly 
through the orchard. His orange and black coat glints among the leaves 
like a flame, giving rise to his other common name of firebird. He is refined 
and high bred in his manners; his song is clear, decided and stated with 
fluency as well as conviction. Do not think you know the oriole when you 
have learned one song; he has many, with variations, which he delights to 
surprise you with. I hear a.new call and search diligently for the bird 
only to find an oriole. There is a petulant noise in the thicket and an oriole 
flies out. His vocabulary nearly equals that of the robin, who leads in his 
ability to express his emotions. This spring the orioles have recognized 
our advantages and a silky gray nest like a bag hangs from the wild 
cherry over my porch. 
Bird parents must be gifted with supernal faith and unlimited love, 
else they would fly in dismay at the sight of their naked fledgling; uglier 
young things I know not of. How a father oriole can look at his half 
grown youngster and believe the dirty drab feathers will ever change to 
his own royal plumage, or that the sharp querulous ‘‘cheep” may ever 
develop into a tuneful voice is more than I can understand. Last evening 
my supper grew cold while I watched for half an hour a father oriole 
struggle manfully to fill the yawning cavern of his nearly grown baby. 
