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Updated: June 12, 2025
This little episode over, I turned again to the birch-tree, and fortunately the warbler's throat was of too fiery a color to remain long concealed; though it was at once a pleasure and an annoyance to find myself still unacquainted with at least one song out of the Blackburnian's repertory.
Draw a line three feet from the ground, and you mark the usual limit of the Kentucky warbler's quest for food. Six or eight feet higher bounds the usual range of such birds as the worm-eating warbler, the mourning ground warbler, the Maryland yellow-throat.
For music to be heard constantly, right under one's window, it could scarcely be improved; sweet, brief, and remarkably unobtrusive, without sharpness or emphasis; a trill not altogether unlike the pine-creeping warbler's, but less matter-of-fact and business-like. I used to listen to it before I rose in the morning, and it was to be heard at intervals all day long.
"Oh, yes!" the Major answered. "Were they as big as this egg?" Mr. Crow inquired. Major Monkey explained that they were not. "Just as I supposed!" the old gentleman exclaimed. "This isn't a Warbler's egg. It's a Cowbird's egg. And you've done that Warbler family a good turn by taking it out of their nest. "I know Mrs. Cowbird," he went on. "She's too lazy to bring up her own children.
Our poetry has therefore a strong undercurrent of pathos and tenderness. A well-known anecdote of a rustic samurai illustrates a case in point. "The brave warrior keeps apart The ear that might listen To the warbler's song."
Presently the pretty madame summoned courage to drop to a lower perch in the tree, then to a still lower one, then to the top of one of the bushes below, and at last into the weed clump and out of sight. I wasted no time. In a minute I was pressing the weeds apart and looking down admiringly into the little cot with its four half-fledged occupants the first Kentucky warbler's nest I had ever seen.
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