In the summer the Parula is a resident of Eastern North America, but in the winter it seeks the warmer climate of Florida and southward. While migrating it is well distributed over its range, and may frequently be seen flying from shrub to shrub. Like the other warblers its flights are short and most of the time it is hidden by the foliage. The longer flights are by night. The days are spent in seeking insects, upon which it feeds almost exclusively. This, the habit of all the warblers, explains the Parula’s sudden disappearance from a locality where it may have been common for a single day. Near the end of May it retires to the swampy woodlands where the gray Spanish moss hangs pendant from the branches and shrubs. Here the Parula makes its nest, a globular or pencil home, usually in bunches of the festooned moss. The four or five white eggs are marked near the larger end with specks of light brown and lilac. Its song is neither interesting nor striking, but is peculiarly in harmony with the voices of spring and as Mr. Chapman says: “When the cypresses are enveloped in a haze of lace-like blossoms and the woods are fragrant with the delicious odor of yellow jasmine, the dreamy softness of the air is voiced by the Parula’s drowsy song.” Neltje Blanchan has most charmingly written about this dainty bird. She says: “A number of such airy, tiny beauties flitting about among the blossoms of the shrubbery on a bright May morning and swaying on the slenderest branches with their inimitable grace, is a sight that the memory should retain into old age. They seem the very embodiment of life, joy, beauty, grace; of everything lovely that birds by any possibility could be. Apparently they are wafted about the garden; they fly with no more effort than a dainty lifting of the wings, as if to catch the breeze that seems to lift them as it might a bunch of thistledown. They go through a great variety of charming posturings as they hunt for their food upon the blossoms and tender, fresh twigs, now creeping like a nuthatch along the bark and peering into the crevices, now gracefully swaying and balancing like a goldfinch upon a slender, pendant stem. One little sprite pauses in its hunt for insects to raise its pretty head and trill a short and wiry song.” A DAINTY LOVER. All animal life is wonderful and much of it is beautiful, but it seems to me there can be nothing prettier or more subtle in all the immense accumulation of the folk lore of human courtship and marriage than the following practice of a certain Mexican bird. He belongs to a rarely beautiful species of the Paradise family. To shield the privacy of his wooing and wedding he builds a dainty little cone-shaped hut, about which he contrives a marvelous little landscape garden.