But if we go on with legends and imagined bird conventions, we shall never get to the bird itself.
The bird itself is the summer yellowbird, the dear, delightful yellow warbler, whose very picture you see before you; the restless, much-traveled bird, the bird who may not look exactly like himself when his coat is worn and tumbled, but who comes by a new, fresh one when it is most sorely needed. More dull of color is his mate, who is just behind himself, somewhere in the tree out of range of the camera. The two are never far apart in family times; where one flies there goes the other, happy as clams--if clams ever are very happy, which we doubt--nesting as they do deep down in the wet sand, and never seeing a flower or a ripe peach or a raspberry all their lives. However, it is supposed the clam knows something akin to happiness, for he is always where he wants to be, save when he falls into the pot, and here is where we will leave him.
Well, the yellow warbler is at home all over North America, migrating from place to place, sometimes in twos and threes, sometimes in flocks; at times journeying straight on, and again stopping in every treetop for refreshments sure to be ready. Sometimes the birds travel by night, coming in on the morning train like any travelers, hungry for breakfast, and the first we know of their arrival is a quaint little plea for something to eat. Not a highly melodious note that, but curious and pleasing.
We always know summer is coming straight away when we see the warbler, just as we know winter is here by the first snowflake. And as soon as they arrive nesting begins. For that very purpose they come, of course. As to the nests, they are very beautiful. The one in the picture must have been built deep in the woods, where grasses and dried leaf tatters were plenty.
But there is no set pattern to go by, when nests are made. That is, there is no particular building material allowed, as with the swallows and some others. The yellow warbler loves best to use things that mat together readily, so the nest cup will be compact and thick, like a piece of felt cloth--so different from the nest of the grosbeak, transparent and open, like basketwork.
To get this cloth-like substance, the birds visit the sweet-fern stalks of the pasture sides, pulling off the woolly furze bit by bit, until a beakful is gathered. Then they make a trip to the brooks, especially in early spring, where they wake up the catkins on the pussy-willows and get loads of the soft fur. Oh, the secrets the pussy-willows know, about bird and bat and butterfly cocoon, and other winged people that frolic in their shadows! They could tell you exactly how many beakfuls of pussy fur it takes to weave a crib blanket for a yellow warbler's nest. Whole nests are made of it sometimes; for the warbler loves to gather one particular kind of material for a nest if sh& comes across enough of it in one spot. That is why they build so rapidly, always getting it done in a hurry. They love big loads of anything, and the male shows his mate where she can find it with the least trouble. In places where sheep pasture, rubbing against trees and catching their sides into thorns and sticks at every turn, the yellowbird gathers the wool. She likes this particularly, as it is light and clings to itself, and she can carry large quantities at one trip.