But to return to the birds—I thought I would carefully note all those I saw or heard in the course of a short hour I had to spare, and with the following results: As I took down the bars in order to take my bicycle into the pasture, a Baltimore Oriole was singing on top of an elm close by, and I have no doubt that its mate was sitting on the nest that hung pendent from the next tree. A Catbird slunk off into the bushes to the right of me, from a thicket in which she last year raised a brood; and, while chaining my wheel, I heard the glorious notes of a Brown Thrasher singing, a little way off, on the top of a tall white oak. Several Red-eyed Vireos were there too, their steady, rippling song forming a soft accompaniment to the more conspicuous notes of the other feathered songsters. Next, I flushed a Quail, and, while watching its flight, I almost stepped on two more, which got up from the under-brush at my feet.
I started in now on my hunt for the White-eye's nest, and for some time was so absorbed in that, and in listening for its expected song, that there was no time to make notes of the other birds heard, except that of a Wood Thrush, whose nest contained four eggs, and was saddled on the crotch of a grape-vine, where it crossed through the crotch of an alder.
To make a long story short, I did not find the Vireos, or even hear them, though for several years they had lived here throughout the summer. I finally went out into an open space, lighted a pipe as a mosquito preventive, and, seating myself on the soft side of a boulder, put down the names of the birds whose notes I could hear.
Below me, in the swamp, the most prominent notes were the 'concarees' of the Red-winged Blackbirds, while between them could be heard the songs of several Swamp Sparrows. Close beside me were a Chestnut-sided and a Golden-winged Warbler, both seemingly much disturbed by my presence, while just as near was a Maryland Yellow-throat, an old friend of mine, who did not seem to care whether I was there or not. This same friend is rather a curiosity, for, although his species usually build in or about the marshes or swamps, he always prefers the hillside, and I last year found his nest within forty feet of where I sat, and several hundred feet away from and above the swamp.
A few Cedar Birds were whispering from the tops of a couple of red cedars about fifty yards away, and I could hear a Yellow Warbler on the other side of the open space, where he sang, apparently for the benefit of a near-by barberry bush.
A Wood Pewee was uttering his plaintive note from the orchard immediately back of me; while just back of that, in the field by the top of the hill, could be heard the rollicking notes of a Bobolink and the occasional call of a Meadow Lark. While writing my notes, some kind of a large Hawk, which flew so fast that identification was impossible, but which I guessed to be a Cooper's Hawk, went off rapidly across the marsh, pursued by a pair of vociferous Kingbirds; and, as I watched them, I could see numbers of Chimney Swifts, from the neighboring chimneys, and Barn Swallows, from a barn close by, coursing about above the marsh after the insects that there abound, the Swallows low down and the Swifts above. While watching the Swallows, two Crows came out of the wood on the opposite side of the marsh, and flew, cawing, across and off into the distance; and a little Green Heron, who, like all fishermen, prefers quiet, flew off in another direction.
Down towards the edge of the swamp, in the outlying thicket, a Song Sparrow was singing, while, close by, a magnificent Rose-breasted Grosbeak, which every year builds in the birches which grow in these thickets, was warbling his incomparable song. At first he had been giving vent to his very unmusical call of alarm, but, becoming used to my presence, and concluding that I meant no harm, he joined in the concert.
Off to one side, among the more scrubby deciduous growth, I could hear, and sometimes see, a Redstart, while the tse-tse-tse-ing of the Black-poll Warblers, which were migrating northwards, could be heard intermittently. Two Quails were now calling loudly for Bob-White, or Rob-ert-White, as their fancy dictated, and in the confusing medley I could make out the modest notes of a Black and White Warbler, which had for years nested somewhere in this pasture. Behind me, at the top of the hill, I could also hear the clear, cheery notes of a Field Sparrow, which always builds there.
Being limited as to time, and having already heard twenty-eight kinds of birds in the short space of about twenty minutes, and from one place, I started to depart, but even as I did so I heard the notes of another bird coming across the marsh, that of the Black-billed Cuckoo, and just as I was again taking down the bars to get out into the street, what should I hear, loud, clear and distinct, but the song of that plaguey little White-eyed Vireo, a song seemingly of thanksgiving that I was really going and that he had eluded me so well. I then reluctantly mounted my bicycle, but was forced to get off, to add two more birds to my increasing list; viz., a Cowbird, which was sitting on the fence opposite, and a pair of Yellow-throated Vireos, the female of which had evidently but just left her nest for a lunch, while the male followed twittering and whispering close by, stopping his song until she should have resumed her duties of incubation.
I had now seen thirty-two different species of birds in the short space of about twenty-five minutes' actual time spent in observation, after deducting the time spent in hunting the Vireo's nest, and departed for home well content, even though I knew I had seen only about three-fifths of the varieties of birds that are often to be found in the immediate vicinity.