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"I hate red hair," answered the attractive widower. "It's just like a golden oriole. It isn't red at all," replied Miss Christie dogmatically. "I call it red," said John Mortimer. "The painters consider it the finest colour possible," continued the absent lady's champion.
Several robins with nests already built on broad crotches of the cherry trees hovered about, their black eyes peering questioningly down at the unwonted visitors to the place. Once during the marriage service a Baltimore oriole flashed into a tree near by, his golden plumage made more intense against the white blossoms.
Species that spend the summer here, like the robin, the warbling vireo, the red-eyed vireo, the chipper, the goldfinch, and the Baltimore oriole, of course sing freely; but the much larger number which merely drop in upon us by the way are busy feeding during their brief sojourn, and besides are kept in a state of greater or less excitement by the frequent approach of passers-by.
He picks up gratefully the crumbs you scatter at your feet. He trusts you. See! he rests a moment on the finger you extend, looks curiously at the nail, and sounds it with his bill to see if it shelters any harmful insect. Then he goes back to his birch twigs. On summer days he never overflows with the rollicksomeness of bobolink and oriole, but takes his abundance in quiet contentment.
But to believe in the collar bone, in the full line and in the stars, is as ridiculous as to believe with the inhabitants of Grand-Cathay that the golden oriole turns into a mole, and that grains of wheat turn into fish of the carp species." "I have studied hermetic science!" exclaimed Coictier, "and I affirm "
There were birds which Bumper had never seen before, some with startling plumage, and others with voices that sounded like flutes. They did not renew their singing, but perked their heads sideways and watched this strange thing popping out of the hollow limb. Finally one of them, Mrs. Oriole, clad in a suit of gold, streaked with black and gray, spoke. "It's Mr. Rabbit's ghost, I do believe. Mr.
From an elm tree, an oriole answers his bold challenge in his rich voice, while a band of chickadees indulge in their querulous calls as they inspect each leaf and twig for larva and eggs. Up in a linden tree, a blue jay is crying "Salute me, salute me." Like a second lieutenant just commissioned.
You have seen what wonderful swinging baskets the Oriole makes for his baby-cradle? Well, it was the Magpie who taught him how, and he was the prize pupil, to be sure. But some of the birds were not like him, nor like the patient little Wren. Some of them were lazy and stupid and envious of Mother Magpie's cosy nest, which was already finished, while theirs was yet to do.
Watching the oriole at her building, I caught the pretty innocent-looking creature stealing material from the kingbird's nest, while her virtuous spouse perched himself on the upper branch of the tree, exactly as if on the watch for returning owners.
Back on the roof of the barn there was a little house of wood with doors for the pretty pigeons, but there were no houses of any kind on the old elm. Still the Orioles did not worry about that. They were not lazy, oh no! They were just looking for a place to build. He had chosen a branch about thirty feet from the ground. Mother Oriole quietly answered back that it suited her perfectly.
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