fused to be frightened and did not move till I rose to leave
him, when, greatly startled, he took flight across the ravine.

A STORMY WOOING.

Not an inch of his body is free from delight,
Can he keep himself still if he would? Oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

WORDSWORTH.

VII.

A STORMY WOOING.

If, as Ruskin says, "the bird is little more than a drift of the air,
brought into form by plumes," the particular bit shaped into the form we
call the orchard oriole must be a breath from a Western tornado, for a
more hot-headed, blustering individual would be hard to find; and when
this embodied hurricane, this "drift" of an all-destroying tempest, goes
a-wooing, strange indeed are the ways he takes to win his mate, and
stranger still the fact that he does win her in spite of his violence.

In a certain neighborhood, where I spent some time in the nesting
season, studying a bird of vastly different character, orchard orioles
were numerous, and in their usual fashion made their presence known by
persistent singing around the house. For it must be admitted, whatever
their defects of temper or manners, that they are most cheerful in song,
the female no less than the male. First of the early morning bird chorus
comes their song, loud, rich, and oft-repeated, though marred in the
case of the male by the constant interpolation of harsh, scolding notes.
Anywhere, everywhere, all day, in pouring rain, in high wind that
silences nearly every bird voice, the orioles sing. One could not
overlook them if he wished, so noisy, so restless, and so musical. Nor
do they care to be unseen; they make no attempt at concealment. No
oriole ever steals into a neighborhood in the quiet way of the cat-bird,
silently taking an observation of its inhabitants before making himself
obvious; on the contrary, all his deeds are before the public, even his
family quarrels. He comes to a tree with a bustle, talking, scolding,
making himself and his affairs the most conspicuous things in the
neighborhood.

Many times he is most annoying. When following some shy bird to its
nest, or moving down toward the grove where are the brooklet and the
birds' bathing-place, no matter how quietly one may approach, footsteps
deadened by thick sand and no rustling garments to betray, the orchard
oriole is sure to know it. He is not the only bird to see a stranger, of
course; the brown thrush is as quick as