While a British brig was gliding smoothly along before a good breeze in the South Pacific, a flock of small birds about the size, shape, and color of paroquets settled down in the rigging and passed an hour or more resting. The second mate was so anxious to find out the species to which the visiting strangers belonged that he tried to entrap a specimen, but the birds were too shy to be thus caught and too spry to be seized by the quick hands of the sailors. At the end of about an hour the birds took the brig's course, and disappeared, but towards nightfall they came back and passed the night in the main-top. The next morning the birds flew off again, and when they returned at noon the sailors scattered some food about the decks. By this time the birds had become so tame that they hopped about the decks, picking up the crumbs. That afternoon an astonishing thing happened. The flock came flying swiftly toward the brig. Every bird seemed to be piping as if pursued by some little invisible enemy on wings, and they at once huddled down behind the deck-house. The superstitious sailors at once called the captain of the brig, who rubbed his eyes and looked at the barometer. A glance showed that something was wrong with the elements and the brig was put in shape to out-ride a storm. The storm came down about twenty minutes after the birds had reached the vessel. For a few minutes the sky was like the waterless bottom of a lake--a vast arch of yellowish mud--and torrents of rain fell. Why it did not blow very hard, no one knows; but on reaching port, two days later, the captain learned that a great tornado had swept across that part of the sea. The birds left the vessel on the morning after the storm and were not seen again. A WINDOW STUDY. OLIVE THORNE MILLER. One of the best places to study birds is from behind the blinds of a conveniently-placed window, where one can see without being seen. My window one July looked into the tops of tall spruce trees, relieved here and there by a pine, a birch, or a maple. This was the home of the most fascinating and the most bewildering of feathered tribes, the warblers, and a rugged old spruce tree was a favorite "Inn of Rest" for every bird in the vicinity. In all the years that I have known birds I have carefully avoided becoming interested in warblers, so tiny, so restless, so addicted to the upper branches, so every way tantalizing to study. But here, without intention on my part, fate had opened my windows into their native haunts, even into the very tree-tops where they dwell. "He strives in vain who strives with fate." After one protest I succumbed to their charms. My principal visitor was a beauty, like most of his distinguished family, having a bright yellow head, set off by a broad black band beginning at the throat and running far down the sides, and he bore the awkward name "black-throated green warbler."