State law in force for the protection of these imported birds. They are all friends of the farmer, especially of the orchardists. They are the tireless and unremitting enemy of every species of bug and worm infesting vegetables, crops, fruit, etc. – S. H. Greene, in Forest and Stream.
BIRD SONGS OF MEMORY
Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words,
Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds;
When as a child I listened to the Whipporwill at dark,
And with the dawn awakened to the music of the lark.
Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun!
The very leaves it seemed to me were singing to the sun,
And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold
The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.
The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river's edge;
The Finches from the evergreens, the Thrushes in the hedge;
Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own,
And all the world were listening to him and him alone.
In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing,
With cheering voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring;
The Oriole upon the elm with martial note and clear,
While Martins twittered gaily by the cottage window near.
Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren,
And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen;
The songsters in the meadow, and the Quail upon the wheat,
And the Warbler's minor music, made the symphony complete.
Beyond the towering chimneyd walls that daily meet my eyes
I hold a vision beautiful, beneath the summer skies;
Within the city's grim confines, above the roaring street,
The happy birds of memory are singing clear and sweet.
THE OVENBIRD
NOW and then an observer has the somewhat rare pleasure of seeing this Warbler (a trifle smaller than the English Sparrow) as he scratches away, fowl fashion, for his food. He has more than one name, and is generally known as the Golden-crowned Thrush, which name, it seems to us, is an appropriate one, for by any one acquainted with the Thrush family he would at once be recognized as of the genus. He has still other names, as the Teacher, Wood Wagtail, and Golden-crowned Accentor.
This warbler is found nearly all over the United States, hence all the American readers of Birds should be able to make its personal acquaintance.
Mr. Ridgway, in "Birds of Illinois," a book which should be especially valued by the citizens of that state, has given so delightful an account of the habits of the Golden-crown, that we may be forgiven for using a part of it. He declares that it is one of the most generally distributed and numerous birds of eastern North America, that it is almost certain to be found in any piece of woodland, if not too wet, and its frequently repeated song, which, in his opinion, is not musical, or otherwise particularly attractive, but very sharp, clear, and emphatic, is often, especially during noonday in midsummer, the only bird note to be heard.
You will generally see the Ovenbird upon the ground walking gracefully over the dead leaves, or upon an old log, making occasional halts, during which its body is tilted daintily up and down. Its ordinary note, a rather faint but sharp chip, is prolonged into a chatter when one is chased by another. The usual song is very clear and penetrating, but not musical, and is well expressed by Burroughs as sounding like the words Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher! the accent on the first syllable, and each word uttered with increased force. Mr. Burroughs adds, however, that it has a far rarer song, which it reserves for some nymph whom it meets in the air. Mounting by easy flights to the top of the tallest tree, it launches into the air with a sort of suspended, hovering flight, and bursts into a perfect ecstacy of song, rivaling the Gold Finch's in vivacity and the Linnet's in melody. Thus do observers differ. To many, no doubt, it is one of the least disagreeable of noises. Col. Goss is a very enthusiastic admirer of the song of this Warbler. Hear him: "Reader, if you wish to hear this birds' love song in its fullest power, visit the deep woods in the early summer, as the shades of night deepen and most of the diurnal birds have retired, for it is then its lively, resonant voice falls upon the air unbroken, save by the silvery flute-like song of the Wood Thrush; and if your heart does not thrill with pleasure, it is dead to harmonious sounds." What more has been said in prose of the song of the English Nightingale?
The nests of the Golden Crown are placed on the ground, usually in a depression among leaves, and hidden in a low bush, log, or overhanging roots; when in an open space roofed over, a dome-shaped structure made of leaves, strippings from plants and grasses, with entrance on the side. The eggs are from three to six, white or creamy white, glossy, spotted as a rule rather sparingly over the surface. In shape it is like a Dutch oven, hence the name of the bird.
ARCTIC THREE-TOED WOODPECKER
Well, here I am, one of those "three-toed fellows," as the Red-bellied Woodpecker called me in the February number of Birds. It is remarkable how impolite some folks can be, and how anxious they are to talk about their neighbors.
I don't deny I have only three toes, but why he should crow over the fact of having four mystifies me. I can run up a tree, zig-zag fashion, just as fast as he can, and play hide-and-seek around the trunk and among the branches, too. Another toe wouldn't do me a bit of good. In fact it would be in my way; a superfluity, so to speak.
In the eyes of those people who like red caps, and red clothes, I may not be as handsome as some other Woodpeckers whose pictures you have seen, but to my eye, the black coat I wear, and the white vest, and square, saffron-yellow cap are just as handsome. The Ivory-billed Woodpeckers, who sent their pictures to Birds in the March number, were funny looking creatures, I think, though they were dressed in such gay colors. The feathers sticking out at the back of the heads made them look very comical, just like a boy who had forgotten to comb his hair. Still they were spoken of as "magnificent" birds. Dear, dear, there is no accounting for tastes.
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