Morning journal and courier., 1883-04-17

for few of the land birds walk. followed her and her mate to an open space, where we took mutual observations. They suddenly flew past my face alsdperched upon branch at my elbow. Approving of the giant in their path, they inhospitably ate their Sunday bug, which they hammered open on the fence
 And now the warblers come. Yeliowrump, that parti-coiored clown, who should be stud jed geographically, and his apparent mortal enemy, the elegant, black throated blue warb- Ter.
 One June morning, the larch looked as if it was covered with bloom of cloth of-gold roses, but they suddenly hoated off on the breeze with an undulating motion, lazily dropping four sweet notes from the crest of each aerial wave, and knew them to be the thistle birds. Ths tiny, blue eyed, yellow warbler came in 80, and the black burnian, too, flashed into the somber larch. These last are quite rare here, and the local orni- thologist disputed my evidence until he shot one himself.
 Except for anatomical study, you can, with time and patience, learn more about the birds, their habits and their nesting places, with your eyes alone than with murderous gun. Lengthen your vision with opera glasses tread softly, wear dress of quiet hue, and be willing to creep, climb, roll and to break your neck by looking up, and you can see and hear acted one long sweet summer idyl. I found that the cat bird and robin squealed at gown of peacock blue, while clad in 'tsober gray" they endured me in silence.
 But the orioIe who calls in his clear, wild whistle, 'sKaty von Vleet, come here, my dear, Katy, Katy T" what delight would Joseph's colored coat have been to him Three orioles nests hang over my mantel now, woven of gay crewels to slight tips of willow. That is the dainty decorative art work for which Lsupply the materials every spring. The great master teaches his tiny vha,nk khair hot their needs fierce ice and winds toss me the trophy
 The trees are thickening fast now. The elm bursts into sweet unheeded blossoms. and the birds grow more charming and dis tracting. The larch is full of life To it's fragrant yellow pollen swarm the bees, until it seems humming hive. Follow closely the kingbird, with his white-rimmed tail and the pewit, sitting on high bough, snaps her bill through the hot July noontide. I never hear the sound without fancying that the mercury has risen to the nineties.
 Summer wanes. I startle phoebe at twilight reviewing three tiny phoebes wit b absurdly large eyes, all demurely sitting in a row and learning by short flights how to fly, to fly away, alas, like the summer ] Several scarlet tanagers and en indigo bird have aIghted on the belt of Norway spruces long enough to create great excitement within that small circle and to give an opportunity
 
 The true larch lovers come now. The goldfnch makes his farewell call. The pur- pie finch swings in the waving branches as if anxious to exhibit in every light his rides cent coat of Tyrian dye. The creepers come and the white eyed vireos scold me on sunny afternoons. The next day silent flock of brown crested birds alight, but noise dis turbs them and in the twinkling of wing they are gone It is like visit from ghost, silent, mysterious, but something one feels distinguished by receiv- ing. These are the cedar birds ironically named ''chatterers, p first cousins of the Bohemian wax-wings. The frosty days are here. Even the artemisias no longer lift their brave heads. We look for the first snow, and
 Leadess are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad like reefs of coral Rising silent in the Red Sea of the winter sunset
 Near the evergreens we spy the winter wren taking her homeward way, and chick-a dees swarm about the house as twilight falls Draw the curtains; roll the easy chairs near the open fire. Summer has gone The larch bouphS are emDtv