Two Oregon Warblers

Abstract

D URING the warm days of May when the mystery of life seems suddenly unveiled in a miraculous manner, I often frequent a woody retreat above the old mill dam on Fulton creek. A clump of firs and maples overhang where the limpid water whirls gurgling among the gray rocks. Star flowers gleam from the darker places of shade, white anemones are scattered among grass blades and ferns, and Linna~an bells overhang the moss-covered logs. This is the haunt of the black-throated gray warbler. a Just below the brow of the hill half a mile above the creek, a little spring bubbles out of an alder copse. Instead of trickling down the hillside like an ordinary streamlet, the water scatters and seeps into the spongy soil. This forms a wet place an acre or so in extent over which has grown a rich growth of swamp grass. This is the yellow-throat'sb home. I call it the Witch's Garden. I have a great admiration for the little feathered individual dressed in gray because his extreme shyness is a good indication of his finer nature. But there is a fascination about lying in the shade of the tall fir and listening to the fanciful call of yellow-throat. You may hear him and his mate almost any time of the day calling Witch-et-y! Witch-et-y ! Yes, you may hear him but seldom see him.