"Rare little bird of the bower,
Bird of the musical wing."

No sooner did the great red trumpets begin to open than their winged
admirers appeared, and the special object of my interest--whether by
right of discovery or by force of will I could not determine--asserted
her claim to the vine and its vicinity, and at once proceeded to evict
every pretender to any share of the treasure. Nor was it a difficult
task; for though the smallest of our birds, the ruby-throat is perhaps
the most spirited. No bird, not even the mighty eagle, standard-bearer
of the republic, is too big for this midget to attack, and none fails to
retire before his rapier-like beak. Madam of the vine lacked none of the
courage and self-assertion of her race, and a few lively skirmishes
convinced the neighbors, with one exception, that this particular crop
of blossoms was preempted and no trespassing allowed. That matter
happily arranged, she settled down in peace to enjoy her estate, and I
followed her example.

July was nearly half gone when blossoms began to unclose on the vine and
my lady took possession. The world about the house and orchard was full
of melody, for goldfinches were just celebrating their nuptials, and
birds have to furnish their own wedding music. Though a march may
express the pomp and ceremony of human marriage, a rhapsody is more in
harmony with joyous bird unions, and the air rang with their raptures.
The marriage hymn of the hummingbird--if any there were--was not for
human ears; indeed, most of the life, certainly all of the wedded life
of this bird, is shrouded in mystery, perhaps never to be unraveled till
we understand bird language, and can subject him to an "interview."

[Sidenote: _A TALKATIVE HUMMINGBIRD._]

The first thing that surprised me in my little neighbor was her
volubility, for I had never found her kin talkative. She made remarks to
herself, doubtless both witty and wise, but sounding to her dull-eared
hearers, it must be confessed, like squeaky twitters; and somewhat
later, when she recognized me as an admirer, as I fully believe she did,
she even addressed some conversation to me, going out of her way to fly
over my head as she did so.

Nothing could be more dainty than her way of exploring the flowers on
her vine. Poising herself on wing before a blossom, she first gazed
earnestly into its rosy depths, to judge of its quality,--or possibly of
its tenants; for it was not nectar alone that she sou