my eyes, deliberately ate that fly and wiped her beak, as who
should say, "You thought I was carrying that morsel to somebody, but
you see I have eaten it myself; there's nothing up that path." But much
as I respected the dear mother, I did not believe her eloquent
demonstration. I selected another point where I could stop a minute, and
picked my way to it. Then all my poor little bird's philosophy deserted
her; she came close to me, she uttered the greatest variety of cries;
she almost begged me to believe that she was the only living creature up
that gully. And so much did she move me, so intolerably brutal did she
make me feel, that for the second time I was very near to turning back.

But the cry began again. How could I miss so good a chance to see that
tawny youngster, when I knew I should not lay finger on it? I hardened
my heart, and struggled a few feet further.

Then some of the neighbors came to see what was the trouble, and if they
could do anything about it. A black-and-white creeper rose from a low
bush with a surprised "chit-it-it-it," alighted on a tree and ran glibly
up the upright branch as though it were a ladder. But a glance at the
"cause of all this woe" was more than his courage could endure; one cry
escaped him, and then a streak of black and white passed over the road
out of sight.

Next came a redstart, himself the head of a family, for he too had his
beak full of provisions. He was not in the least dismayed; he perched on
a twig and looked over at me with interest, as if trying to see what the
veery found so terrifying, and then continued on his way home. A
snow-bird was the last visitor, and he came nearer and nearer, not at
all frightened, merely curious, but madam evidently distrusted him, for
she flew at him, intimating in a way that he plainly understood that
"his room was better than his company."

Still I floundered on, and now the disturbed mother added a new cry,
like the bleating of a lamb. I never should have suspected a bird of
making that sound; it was a perfect "ba-ha-ha." Yet on listening
closely, I saw that it was the very tremolo that gives the song of the
male its peculiar thrill. Her "ba-ha-ha," pitched to his tone, and with
his intervals, would be a perfect reproduction of it. No doubt she could
sing, and perhaps she does,--who knows?

Now the mother threw in occasionally a louder sort of call-note like
"pee-ro," which was quickly followed by the appearance of another