e spirit of frolic had again got
the upper hand of them, the ring would rise, and the chippering and
circling go on. In a minute or two the same man[oe]uvre would be
repeated, the chimney, as it were, taking its swallows at intervals to
prevent choking. It usually took a half-hour or more for the birds all
to disappear down its capacious throat. There was always an air of
timidity and irresolution about their approach to the chimney, just as
there always is about their approach to the dead tree-top from which
they procure their twigs for nest-building. Often did I see birds
hesitate above the opening and then pass on, apparently as though they
had not struck it at just the right angle. On one occasion a solitary
bird was left flying, and it took three or four trials either to make up
its mind or to catch the trick of the descent. On dark or threatening or
stormy days the birds would begin to assemble by mid-afternoon, and by
four or five o'clock were all in their lodgings.

THE OVEN-BIRD

Every loiterer about the woods knows this pretty, speckled-breasted,
olive-backed little bird, which walks along over the dry leaves a few
yards from him, moving its head as it walks, like a miniature domestic
fowl. Most birds are very stiff-necked, like the robin, and as they run
or hop upon the ground, carry the head as if it were riveted to the
body. Not so the oven-bird, or the other birds that walk, as the
cow-bunting, or the quail, or the crow. They move the head forward with
the movement of the feet. The sharp, reiterated, almost screeching song
of the oven-bird, as it perches on a limb a few feet from the ground,
like the words "preacher, preacher, preacher," or "teacher, teacher,
teacher," uttered louder and louder, and repeated six or seven times, is
also familiar to most ears; but its wild, ringing, rapturous burst of
song in the air high above the tree-tops is not so well known. From a
very prosy, tiresome, unmelodious singer, it is suddenly transformed for
a brief moment into a lyric poet of great power. It is a great surprise.
The bird undergoes a complete transformation. Ordinarily it is a very
quiet, demure sort of bird. It walks about over the leaves, moving its
head like a little hen; then perches on a limb a few feet from the
ground and sends forth its shrill, rather prosy, unmusical chant. Surely
it is an ordinary, commonplace bird. But wait till the inspiration of
its flight-song is upon it. What a change!