ho was plainly well able
to take care of herself, would have thought him deficient in
earnestness. At any rate, the wood wagtail is not the only bird whose
courtship has the appearance of a scrimmage; and I believe there are
still tribes of men among whom similar practices prevail, although the
greater part of our race have learned, by this time, to take somewhat
less literally the old proverb, "None but the brave deserve the fair."
Love, it is true, is still recognized as one of the passions (in theory
at least) even among the most highly civilized peoples; but the tendency
is more and more to count it a _tender_ passion.

While I am on the subject of marriage I may as well mention the
white-eyed vireo. It had come to be the 16th of the month, and as yet I
had neither seen nor heard anything of this obstreperous genius; so I
made a special pilgrimage to a certain favorite haunt of his--Woodcock
Swamp--to ascertain if he had arrived. After fifteen minutes or more of
waiting I was beginning to believe him still absent, when he burst out
suddenly with his loud and unmistakable _Chip-a-wee-o_. "Who are _you_,
now?" the saucy fellow seemed to say, "Who are _you_, now?" Pretty soon
a pair of the birds appeared near me, the male protesting his affection
at a frantic rate, and the female repelling his advances with a snappish
determination which might have driven a timid suitor desperate. He
posed before her, puffing out his feathers, spreading his tail, and
crying hysterically, _Yip, yip, yaah_,--the last note a downright whine
or snarl, worthy of the cat-bird. Poor soul! he was well-nigh beside
himself, and could not take _no_ for an answer, even when the word was
emphasized with an ugly dab of his beloved's beak. The pair shortly
disappeared in the swamp, and I was not privileged to witness the upshot
of the battle; but I consoled myself with believing that Phyllis knew
how far she could prudently carry her resistance, and would have the
discretion to yield before her adorer's heart was irremediably broken.

In this instance there was no misconceiving the meaning of the action;
but whoever watches birds in the pairing season is often at his wit's
end to know what to make of their demonstrations. One morning a linnet
chased another past me down the road, flying at the very top of his
speed, and singing as he flew; not, to be sure, the full and copious
warble such as is heard when the bird hovers, but still a lively tune. I