The food is chiefly insects, especially in the larval form, and berries. To some extent they also feed upon the buds of flowers. Mr. Chapman tells us that "the tropical species are of a roving disposition, and wander through the forests in search of certain trees bearing ripe fruit, near which they may always be found in numbers." Their nests are shallow and the eggs, usually three to five in number, are greenish-blue in color, speckled with brown and purple. The Louisiana Tanager is a Western species, ranging from British Columbia on the north to Guatemala on the south, and from the Missouri river to the Pacific coast. Our illustration well represents the male. The female, like its sister tanagers, is plainly colored, but still beautiful. It is olive green, with the underside yellowish. The feathers of the wings and tail are brown, edged with olive. It resembles the female Scarlet Tanager. The young are at first like the female. Then appears the black of the back, mixed with some olive and a slight tinge of red on the head. It would seem that its name is a misnomer, as it is not found in the State of Louisiana. CHATTER OF A CHAT. I'm the "Chat." You've heard me if you haven't seen me. But there isn't a better lookin' bird in our wood, either. My olive-green coat is a beauty. My yellow satin vest would dazzle your eyes. And my white china spectacles are heirlooms in our family. My wife dresses just as handsome as I do. I'm a prey to high spirits. Some folk call me a "wag." Don't know what that is, but I don't see the use in bein' doleful. Why, when I get back from Mexico, I feel obliged to holler. So I just holler. The way old Mother Earth rigs up in the Spring makes me full of life. I get down and cool my legs in the deep grass. It brings my appetite back a-whizzin'. My! If I don't eat a thousand bugs a day. "Juicy" don't describe 'em. Then I climb a tree-top and holler. If I eat a thousand bugs seems like I have to give two thousand hollers. I holler straight through a moonlight night. You see, I hate to let old Whippoorwill think he's the only bird alive. Mornin' after folks stop talkin' 'bout how bad they slept and say, "What's that?" somebody says, "That's the Chat." Then they always laugh. And I laugh, too--a very Falstaffian laugh, as if I'se shakin' great fat sides out of their accordion plaits. Then I give a beautiful whistle. And they say, "Now, what's that?" The fellow I know says, "That's the Chat." Then I give a surprised whistle, just as if you stepped on a tack or took a drink of red-hot coffee. And they say, "And what's that?" And the wise man says, "That's the Chat again." Well, says the other fellow, "I'll never know that bird." But the bad sleeper says, "Well, you would if he kept you awake all last night as he did me. He never knows when to stop." But even that fellow will never know when I've said my last word!