"
or "I beseech you," all of which, excepting the last, I have heard at
different times from other members of the family; which, by the way,
confirms my oft-repeated assertion that no two birds of a species sing
alike. His ordinary notes resembled "pe-o-we," delivered in lively
manner, with strong accent on the first syllable. Sometimes he gave them
the regulation three times; again, he added a fourth repetition, and
changed this by ending on the first syllable of the fifth utterance. On
one occasion he surprised and delighted me by turning from the third
"pe-o-we" into a continuous little carol, varied and bewitching. Later
in the season, after I had finished my studies in the alder bushes, I
heard several times from a yellow-throat in the pasture a similar
continuous song, usually delivered on the wing.

[Sidenote: _A QUEER SUN-BATH._]

After some days my little watcher became so accustomed to my silent
presence under the pine that he did not mind me in the least, though he
never forgot me, and if I stirred he was on the alert in an instant. So
long as I was motionless he ignored me entirely, and conducted himself
as if he were alone; often taking a sunning by crouching on the top twig
of a bush, spreading wings and tail and fluffing out his plumage till he
looked like a ragged bunch of feathers. It was very droll to see him,
while in this attitude, suddenly pull himself together, stand upright,
utter his song, and instantly relapse into the spread-eagle position to
go on with his sunbath. To my surprise, I found that this warbler,
whose song and movements always seem to indicate a constant flitting and
scrambling about in warbler fashion, is capable of repose. He frequently
stood perfectly still, the black patch which covers his eyes like an
old-fashioned face-mask turned toward me, singing his little aria with
as much composure as ever thrush sang his.

My pleasing acquaintance with the yellow-throat ended as soon as the
young became expert on the wing and could leave their native alder
patch. After that the nook was deserted, and unless I heard the song I
could not distinguish my little friend among the dozens of his species
who lived in the neighborhood.

Toward the north end of my delectable hunting-ground was a second
favorite spot, especially attractive on warm, sunny mornings. When I
turned my steps that way, I came first upon the feeding-ground of
another party of Young Americans,--thrashers. They were a