ip tiatoee Aa DUB tGiNe' BUSI Evy LN 3 
unusual leaves, but the delicate lemon yellow of the petals, shading into 
orange and then to a deep rich brown, has a more subtle beauty than either. 
10:15 A.M.—From the top of the hill in the center of the valley I sit 
and watch the mountain. Light and shadows change its appearance as the 
day progresses. On a distant slope the southern yellow pines, which closely 
resemble the stately ponderosas of the West, stand out boldly above the 
smaller evergreen and deciduous trees. 
Back in the valley, I turn off the highway into a narrow road winding 
up a heavily wooded hill. Along the way I record black and white, blue- 
winged, and chestnut-sided warblers in my note book. 
Here is a large shrub with dark maroon blossoms which seems un- 
familiar to me until I become aware of the heavy odor. It is a papaw bush 
and the flower has a sickly sweet scent similar to the fruit that will come 
in the fall. I have not seen it since I was a child, and it brings back happy 
memories of a boy joyously roaming the woods with a father he adored. 
On the highway again, across from a pretty cottage with a fine old 
boxwood hedge, I stop before a pole supporting gourds for any birds that 
will use them for their nests. On the top of it a mockingbird, in his char- 
acteristic cockiness, is alternately scolding and singing to the wide world. 
In the shrubbery nearby a brown thrasher utters a few hesitant notes as 
though he were considering a contest. After tuning up for a moment he 
decides in the affirmative, pouring forth every song he knows. His repertoire 
is not as varied as the mocker’s, but some of the latter’s notes are certainly 
not musical while practically all of the thrasher’s are. If I were judging 
the contest, I should vote for him. 
11:30 A.M.—Going up the hill to the charming home of my host and 
hostess, I sit on the terrace in the warm sunshine for an hour. Sitting is 
not a lost art down here; in fact, the whole tempo of life has a blessed 
slowness like the mountain folks’ drawling conversation. While idling the 
time away I lazily watch a little lizard and marvel at his protective colora- 
tion. It is very difficult to see him when he is not moving. 
3:30 P.M.—After lunch I slept for two hours and now once more start 
down the ravine. There is a warbler-like bird feeding on a mountain laurel 
bush. I cannot get a good view of it but there is a glimpse of a black stripe 
over the eye. There he is on the ground, an oven-bird walking daintily over 
the forest floor like a pigmy chicken. Surely though, he is not the same 
bird I was watching. No, he is now on the end of a low twig with his head 
pointing downward, and I see that it is olive-green with black stripes. I 
start to refer to my ‘“Peterson’s Guide,” but before I find the picture or 
read the description I realize that it is a worm-eating warbler. 
For half an hour I have been watching a pair of blue-grey gnatcatchers 
at their nest. It is a marvel of bird architecture, a deep cup-shaped struc- 
ture which seems at least three times as large as necessary. It is anchored 
firmly on a horizontal limb, and is entirely covered with lichen. The nest 
wall is cleverly built partially around an upright branch at one side, so 
that it is not permitted to interfere with the perfect symmetry of the 
completed structure. 
