Birds in the locality were quite numerous and some of them showed remarkable tameness. During the hours of night time, giving voice as it were to the weird lights and shadows around the house, we could hear the mournful ditty of a screech owl whose home was in a nearby hickory tree, while the first gray streak of each returning dawn was heralded by the sweet songs of the robins. Flickers were frequently seen hopping around in the grass near the roots of various trees; the notes of the yellow-billed cuckoo were also heard in the thick foliage of the maples: redeyed vireos kept up a continual warbling all day long and doubtless had a nest in the vicinity, as we observed the mother bird feeding two very young ones; the latter being perched in a low bush in the yard. The happy song of the house wrens was always in evidence and three nests were built under the porch roof. I personally observed one of the broods leaving the nest and was surprised to see two of their number climb up the straight trunk of a wild cherry tree—genuine woodpecker fashion—for a distance of twelve or fifteen feet, where the limbs began to branch out. However, they arrived at the top safely and remained there for the balance of the day. Humming birds often came and hovered over the many beautiful flowers in the yard, and sometimes consented to alight for a few minutes for our benefit. On one of these occasions a party of five (including my baby daughter) approached to within three feet of the flower stalk upon which our little visitor was perched; still it sat there, turning its wee head this way and that, looking at us with fearless unconcern. At last it gave a sharp chirp, flew, and was soon lost to sight. On one occasion in the early morning, we were greeted with the familiar call “Bob White,” which seemed to come from the woods in the rear of the yard. The call was repeated several times, but we were unable to discover the author of it. A tree of fine red cherries proved a great attraction for cat birds and other feathered fruit lovers. But what we considered the greatest privilege, and one which was exceedingly enjoyed, was the daily greeting of the wood thrushes during the breakfast hour. What could be more charming than to sit leisurely eating the morning meal and all the while listening to the sweet, clear strains of the loveliest bird songs pouring from the throats of the russet-brown vocalists just outside the kitchen window, peal after peal, in endless volume and variation. In addition to the birds already mentioned we sometimes heard the shrill scream of the blue jay, also the notes of the king birds and crested flycatchers, while from the distance, floating to us from across some field or meadow, came the morning praises of a meadow lark or the well known call of the kildeer. The crows also added their deep caw-caw-caw to the chorus of woodland voices. The clearing above referred to proved to be the home of two or three species of the warbler family, and a walk