irds came about bearing food, and all
sorts of catbird talk went on within hearing: the soft liquid "chuck"
and "mew" (so called, though it is more like "ma-a") in all tones and
inflections, complaining, admonishing, warning, and caressing. There was
evidently a whole family among the bushes. A vireo baby, plainly just
out of the cradle, stared at me, and addressed me with a sort of husky
squawk, an indescribable sound, which, until I became familiar with it,
brought me out in hot haste to see what terrible tragedy was going on.
For it is really a distressful cry, although it often proclaims nothing
more serious than that the young vireo wants his dinner; as some infants
of the human family scream at the top of their voices under similar
circumstances.

Beyond the close-growing bushes I heard the crow baby's quavering cry;
and these seemed indeed anxious days in crowland. All the little folk
were crying at once, in their loudest and most urgent tones, enough to
distract the hard-working parents who hurried back and forth overhead,
at their best speed, trying to stop the mouths of their ill-bred brood.
On one occasion I saw an old crow flying over, calling in a decided,
"stern parent" style, followed by a youngster not yet expert on the
wing, who answered with his droll baby "ma-a-a" in a much higher key.
She was conducting him over the pasture to the salt marsh, where much
crow-baby food came from in those days, and he was doing his best to
keep up with her stronger flight. Sometimes another sound from the
nursery came to my ears,--the caw of an adult, drawn out into a long,
earnest "aw-w-w," like admonishing or instructing the now silent olive
branches. It was many times repeated, and occasionally interrupted by a
baby voice, showing that the little ones were not asleep. I suspect,
from what I have seen of crow ways, that the sable mamma is a strict
disciplinarian who will tolerate no liberties and no delinquencies on
the part of her dusky brood, and although this particular Young American
may complain, he dare not rebel. Poor crowling! he needs perhaps a
Spartan training to fit him for his hard life in the world. With every
man's hand against him, and danger lurking on all sides, he must be wary
and sharp and have all his wits about him to live.

[Sidenote: _THE HEAVENLY SONG._]

When I could tear myself away from this domestic corner of the pasture,
I passed on to the riverside nook I have mentioned. Here my seat w