Little Brothers of the Air

by Olive Thorne Miller

THE VAGARIES OF A WARBLER.

The bird lover who carries a glass but never a gun, who observes but never shoots, sees many queer things not set down in the books; freaks and notions and curious fancies on the part of the feathered folk, which reveal an individuality of character as marked in a three-inch warbler as in a six-foot man. Some of the idiosyncrasies of our "little brothers" may be understood and explained from the human standpoint, others are as baffling as "the lady, or the tiger?"

One lovely and lazy day last July—the fourth it was—a perfect day with not a cannon nor even a cracker to disturb its peace, my comrade and I turned our steps toward the woods, as we had for the thirty-and-three mornings preceding that one.

This morning, however, was distinguished by the fact that we had a special object. In general, our passage through the woods was an open-eyed (and open-minded) loitering walk, alternated with periods of rest on our camp-stools, wherever we found anything of interest to detain us.

On this Fourth of July we were in search of a warbler,—one of the most tantalizing, maddening pursuits a sensible human being can engage in. Fancy the difficulty of dragging one's self, not to mention the flying gown, camp-stool, opera-glass, note-book and other impedimenta through brush and brier, over logs, under fallen trees, in the swamp and through the tangle, to follow the eccentric movements of a scrap of a bird the size of one's finger, who proceeds by wings and not by feet, who goes over and not through all this growth.

The corner to which we had traced our "black-throated blue," and where we suspected he had a nest, presented a little worse than the usual snarl of saplings and fallen branches and other hindrances, and the morning was warm. My heart failed me; and as my leader turned from the path I deserted. "You go in, if you like," I said; "I'll wait for you here."

I seated myself, and she went on. For a few minutes I heard the cracking of twigs, the rustle of her movements against the bushes, the heavy tread of her big dog, and then all was silent.

It was—did I say it was a fair morning?—not a breath of air was stirring. My seat was in a rather open spot at the foot of a big butternut tree; and I could look far up where its branches spread out wide and held their graceful leafy stars against the blue.

In the woods I am never lonely; but I was not this morning alone. Near by a vireo kept up his tireless song; a gray squirrel peeped curiously at me from behind a trunk, his head showing on one side and his tail on the other; an oven-bird stole up behind to see what manner of creature this was, and far off I could hear the tanager singing.

I did not notice the time; but after a while I became conscious of a low whistle which seemed to mingle with my reveries, and might have been going on for some minutes. Suddenly it struck me that it was the call of my fellow-student, and I started up the road wondering lazily if she had found the nest, and, to tell the truth, not caring much whether she had or not. For, to tell the whole truth, I had long ago steeled my heart against the fascinations of those bewitching little sprites who never stay two seconds in one spot, and sternly resolved never, never to get interested in a warbler.