The woods rang with the music of the birds, for nothing is so sweet as natural music.—Sarah W. Weaver (Age 11 years), Baltimore County, Md.
[“For nothing is so sweet as natural music.”
This naive observation brings to mind the gurgle of brooks, waving treetops, and hum of busy insects, as well as the music of feathered songsters. It has the essence of spring in it, when awakening life so quickly voices itself in melody.—A. H. W.]
INTERESTING PERFORMANCE OF A TUFTED TITMOUSE
While taking refuge from a slight April shower on the porch of an unoccupied summer cottage at Lithia Springs, Ga., twenty miles from Atlanta, I once witnessed an interesting performance by a Tufted Titmouse. Having chosen a damp brown oak leaf from the ground, it flew with it into a bare tree, and, holding the leaf with its claw firmly against a branch, it drew itself to its full height, raised its head like a Woodpecker, and with all the might of its tiny frame gave, a forcible blow to the leaf with its bill. This process was kept up nearly half an hour. The bird seemed utterly indifferent to the near presence of my two friends and myself. Once it dropped the leaf, but immediately picked it up and carried it back to the tree. A boy passed on the sidewalk below. The bird flew to a higher branch. At last its purpose seemed to be accomplished. It rested, and lifted the leaf by the petiole. We then saw that the hammering had made it into a firm brown ball nearly as large as an oak gall. The bird flew with it behind the kitchen-ell of the cottage. We hurried around, and were met by the Titmouse, empty-billed, who looked at us with an innocent, nonchalant air. Had it dropped the ball into its nest-hole?—Lucy H. Upton.
[Who can add any information which will throw light on this unusual observation?—A. H. W.]
TWILIGHT HOUR AT ASHAWAY
The western sky, soft tinted with the hues of setting sun,
Lends beauty to the twilight shadows lengthening one by one,
Twined mystic’lly together by the stirring April breeze
That sends a message of awakening through the leafless trees.
The fresh, cool air, bearing the scent of new-ploughed earth
Gives promise of the future harvest soon to have its birth,
When garden, field and orchard, now wearing brown and gray,
Shall change these duller colors for the vernal green of May;
The farmer reads the happy signs and whistles in true glee
Jangling in haste his cans and milk-pails merrily;
While lazy cattle straggle up the rocky barnyard way,
And the impatient horses paw and whinny for their hay.