4 T H°E? ‘A .U(DIU BLOUN TBO Go Bele 
There is a flash of yellow at the side of the path and here is a brightly 
colored warbler not ten feet away. It is a little beauty. I have not seen it 
before but it offers no problem in identification. The distinctive black and 
yellow pattern of the head and throat leaves no doubt that it is a male 
hooded warbler. 
From a tangle of vines and bushes comes a succession of erratic sounds, 
first quizzical, now protesting, now pugnacious and boastful. They are the 
calls of one of the real individualists among birds, a bird perhaps more 
often heard than seen, the yellow-breasted chat. 
Highway Pacolet Valley 
5:30 P.M.—The pileated woodpecker has just led me on a merry chase. 
I was chasing him by the sound of his drumming from one tree to another, 
but since it took me five or six minutes to negotiate the distances he covered 
in seconds it was a losing game. The result is I never saw him and I am 
fagged out. So now I am not only a rank amateur ornithologist, but also a 
lazy one as I sit in a comfortable chair watching the birds at the feeding 
table. One of the interesting things about watching birds at feeders is to 
note their display of human traits. Some are timid, others are curious or 
suspicious, and there are bluffers and bullies that are pugnacious and 
quarrelsome. At present the cardinals are in command of the table, while 
the white-throated sparrows are picking the gleanings from the ground 
below. I saw two of these little migrants at home before I left and I wonder 
if some now here will be among those singing in the backyards when I 
return. 
8:00 P.M.—Shortly after dinner this evening my hostess and my wife 
shout from the terrace in front of the house, “Come quickly! Hurry!” I 
grab my binoculars, which are rarely out of sight, and rush outside. Like a 
