Up it goes through the
branches of the trees, leaping from limb to limb, faster and faster,
till it shoots from the tree-tops fifty or more feet into the air above
them, and bursts into an ecstasy of song, rapid, ringing, lyrical; no
more like its habitual performance than a match is like a rocket; brief
but thrilling; emphatic but musical. Having reached its climax of flight
and song, the bird closes its wings and drops nearly perpendicularly
downward like the skylark. If its song were more prolonged, it would
rival the song of that famous bird. The bird does this many times a day
during early June, but oftenest at twilight.

About the first of June there is a nest in the woods, upon the ground,
with four creamy-white eggs in it, spotted with brown or lilac, chiefly
about the larger ends, that always gives the walker who is so lucky as
to find it a thrill of pleasure. It is like a ground sparrow's nest with
a roof or canopy to it. The little brown or olive backed bird starts
away from your feet and runs swiftly and almost silently over the dry
leaves, and then turns her speckled breast to see if you are following.
She walks very prettily, by far the prettiest pedestrian in the woods.
But if she thinks you have discovered her secret, she feigns lameness
and disability of both leg and wing, to decoy you into the pursuit of
her. This is the oven-bird. The last nest of this bird I found was while
in quest of the pink cypripedium. We suddenly spied a couple of the
flowers a few steps from the path along which we were walking, and had
stooped to admire them, when out sprang the bird from beside them,
doubtless thinking she was the subject of observation instead of the
rose-purple flowers that swung but a foot or two above her. But we never
should have seen her had she kept her place. She had found a rent in the
matted carpet of dry leaves and pine needles that covered the ground,
and into this had insinuated her nest, the leaves and needles forming a
canopy above it, sloping to the south and west, the source of the more
frequent summer rains.

THE CATBIRD

It requires an effort for me to speak of the singing catbird as he; all
the ways and tones of the bird seem so distinctly feminine. But it is,
of course, only the male that sings. At times I hardly know whether I am
more pleased or annoyed with him. Perhaps he is a little too common, and
his part in the general chorus a little too conspicuous. If you are
listen