The next on my list was a discovery, and one over which I was jubilant. He was an elusive little fellow, and led me out into the rain and kept me standing there with the drops trickling down my face as I searched the branches for him. He was the daintiest sprite imaginable, whose blue-gray coat was like satin and whose white breast shading from a yellow throat could not make him conspicuous. It was only when I discovered that his back was a beautiful shade of bronzy-greenish-yellow that I knew he was the parula warbler, the blue yellow back. Then I went to the authorities to learn more about my stranger. Then I read that he wears another distinguishing mark, a brown streak across the throat. Back to the garden I went. Eureka! he satisfied all conditions, and was named! During this shower of warblers the parula was the most numerous species, excepting, perhaps, the chestnut sided. A redstart came in for its share of admiration, and his beauty deserved it, but his evident appreciation of his own charms as he dashed here and there, opening and closing his fan-like tail, rather detracted from his character as he was viewed alongside his beautiful companions, who, to say the least, are modestly unaware of their charms. Later, another discovery was made, and one that puzzled us for some time. At the first glimpse of him we said, “Chickadee, of course,” for we saw his black cap and his general black and white aspect. Then as he flew to a tree near the window, and we marked every point possible, we found that his back was closely striped with black and white, that his breast and belly were white, and that his wings were tinged with olive and had two white bars. We could not name him, and to my amazement Miss Wilcox did not have such a one in her “Common Land Birds of New England.” so not until I went to “Birdcraft” did I learn that my visitor was the black poll warbler. He was always intent upon his own affairs, seemed rather superior to the common herd, and was the last one of the visitation to leave me. The Maryland yellow throat was here, too, away from his native alders, but seemingly not one bit confused to find himself an orchard bird. Perhaps he was only “going a piece” with his relatives and connections as they journeyed north. He is a beauty, and you may hear him in any alder swamp calling “witchy-titchy, witchy-titchy.” I searched and searched for the black and white creeper whom we often see, but evidently he did not like a mixed crowd, for I did not discover him until several days later, when the main flock had passed on. The rest, however, were on every side, and so tame and confiding were they that a raised sash, or an ecstatic shout to a watcher at another window did not appear to disturb them in the least. They were voiceless, though, intent upon nothing but dinner, except the redstart, who seemed to take settlement life as somewhat of a joke and, as he careered about, occasionally called to “sweet, sweeter, sweet.”