ring my absence,
and the young blues were, doubtless, at that moment running about under
the weeds.

Thus we found our warbler, the head of a family, hard at work as any
sparrow, feeding a beloved, but somewhat scraggy looking, youngster, the
feeble likeness of himself. There, too, we found the little brown mamma,
the same, as we suppose, whose nest-building we had watched with so much
interest. She also had a youngster under her charge. But how was this!
a brown baby clad like herself! Could it be that the sons and daughters
of this warbler family outrage all precedent by wearing their grown-up
dress in the cradle? We consulted the authorities and found our
conclusion was correct.

Henceforth we watched with greater interest than before. Every day that
we came into the woods we saw the little party of four, always near
together, scrambling about under the saplings or among the jewel-weed,
or running over the tangled branches of a fallen tree, the two younger
calling in sharp little voices for food, and the elders bustling about
on low trees to find it.

We soon noticed that there was favoritism in the family. Papa fed only
the little man, while mamma fed the little maid, though she too
sometimes stuffed a morsel into the mouth of her son. Let us hope that
by this arrangement both babies are equally fed, and not, as is often
the case, the most greedy secures the greatest amount.

We had now reached the last of July, and the woods were full of new
voices, not alone the peeps or chirps of birdlings impatient for food.
There were baffling rustles of leaves in the tree-tops, rebounds of
twigs as some small form left them, flits of strange-colored
wings,--migration had begun. Now, if the bird-student wishes not to go
mad with problems she cannot solve, she will be wise to fold her
camp-stool and return to the haunts of the squawking English sparrow and
the tireless canary, the loud-voiced parrot, and the sleep-destroying
mockingbird. I did.

XVIII.

A RAINY-DAY TRAMP.

Before I opened my eyes in the morning I knew something had happened,
for I missed the usual charm of dawn. A robin, to be sure, made an
effort to lead, as was his custom, and sang out bravely once or twice; a
song sparrow, too, flitted into the evergreen beside my window, and
uttered his sweet and cheery little greeting to whom it might concern.
But those were the only ones out of the fourteen voices we were
accustomed to hear in the morning