And he came by his blue coat in this wise: When the storm had spent itself the bluebird was the first to go out of the boat, straight toward heaven, singing as he went. When he got to the blue sky he stopped not, but pushed his way straight through, rubbing the tint of the sky right into his uncolored feathers, that had grown in a flash when he left the boat. His mate followed straight through the hole her lord had made, but of course she did not get so much blue as he, the hole being rubbed quite dry of its paint. Ever since the first flight of the bluebird somewhere the sun has shone through the rift he made in the sky and he carries hope of spring in his wake. The bluebirds are good neighbors, never quarreling nor troubling other birds. In the late fall his note changes to a plaintive one, as if he were mourning for the dear, delightful days of summer-time and nursery joys. It is now that he, with his large family, may be seen on weed stalks in the open country, looking for belated insects and searching for beetles and spiders among the stones. In darting for winged insects the bluebird does not take a sudden flight, but sways leisurely, as if he would not frighten his treasure by quick movements. Besides this particular bluebird, so well known all over North America, there are two other members of the family, differing only slightly in coloring and similar in habits. These are the Western and the Arctic bluebirds. The bluebirds are the morning-glories of our country. They are companions of the violet of spring and the asters in autumn. They belong to the blue sky and the country home and the city suburbs. When the English sparrow is weary of being made into pot-pie and baby-broth, it will go on its way to the North Pole or the Southern Ocean, and our darling in blue will have no enemy in all the land. When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er, And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, And millions of warblers that charmed us before Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow, The bluebird, forsaken, yet true to his home, Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow; Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam, He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow. Wilson. CHAPTER XI THE TANAGER PEOPLE "Magic bird, but rarely seen, Phœnix in our forest green, Plumed with fire, and quick as flame-- Phœnix, else thou hast no name." It is a large tribe, of numerous species in America, but the scarlet tanager alone may well be termed the Red Man of the forest. Native of the New World, shy, a gypsy in his way, harmless to agriculture, a hunter by nature, fascinating to all eyes that light on him.