fied myself as to the identity of the singer. "Trees, trees, murmuring trees:" so I once translated the first of the two songs; and to this day I do not see how to improve upon the version. He is talking of the Weymouth pine, I like to believe.
Black-and-white creeping warblers have been common since the 4th (under normal weather conditions they should have been here a fortnight sooner), and on the 6th the oven-bird took possession of the drier woods. He looks very little like a warbler, but those who ought to know whereof they speak class him with that family. I have not yet heard his flight song, but he has no idea of keeping silence. As is true of every real artist, he is in love with his part. With what a daintily self-conscious grace he walks the boards! It is a kind of music to watch him. He makes me think continually of the little ghost in Mrs. Slosson's story. Like that insubstantial reality he is always saying: "Don't you want to hear me speak my piece?" And whether the answer is yes or no, it is no matter—over he goes with it.
Yesterday my first blue yellow-back was
