of the warblers, to
be driven wild by the numberless shades of yellow and olive, to go
frantic over stripes and spots, and bars, and to wear out patience and
the Manual, trying to discover what particular combination of Latin
syllables scientists have bestowed upon this or that flitting atom in
feathers. Before the student is out of bed, a new warbler-note will
distract her; in the twilight some tiny bird will fly over her head with
an unfamiliar twitter; each and every one will rouse her to eager desire
to see it, to name it.

Why have we such a rage for labeling and cataloguing the beautiful
things of Nature? Why can I not delight in a bird or flower, knowing it
by what it is to me, without longing to know what it has been to some
other person? What pleasure can it afford to one not making a scientific
study of birds to see such names as "the blue and yellow-throated
warbler," "the chestnut-headed golden warbler," "the yellow-bellied,
red-poll warbler," attached to the smallest and daintiest beauties of
the woods?

Musing upon this and other mysteries, I followed my friend up the
familiar paths one day, looking for some young birds whose strange cries
we had noted. It was a gray morning, and all the tree trunks were grim
and dark, with no variety in coloring. The sounds we were following led
us through some unused roads entirely grown up with jewel-weed, part of
it five feet high, and thickly hung with the yellow flower from which it
takes its name.

It had rained in the night, and every leaf was adorned with minute drops
like gems. We parted the stems carefully and passed through, though it
seemed to us like wading in deep water, and, in spite of our caution, we
were well sprinkled from the dripping leaves. Just as we stepped out of
our green sea, the low calls we were trying to locate ceased. We walked
slowly on until we were attracted by a rustling in the dry leaves, and
then we turned to see two young thrushes foraging about in silence by
themselves. They were not very shy, but looked at us with innocent baby
eyes as we drew near and examined them. We saw the color and the
markings and the peculiar movement of the tail characteristic of the
hermit. There could be no doubt that these were hermit babies. We were
delighted to see them. I never feel that I know a bird family till I
have seen the young. But my pleasure was sadly marred by the reflection
that where there were babies must have been a nest and a singer