* * * * *

We follow the scarlet tanager up a wide glen where wholesome smelling
brake grows almost shoulder high. Suddenly there comes from our feet a
sharp, painful cry, as of a human being in distress, and the ruffed
grouse, commonly called pheasant, leaves her brood of tiny, ginger-yellow
chicks--eight, ten, twelve--more than we can count,--little active bits
of down about the size of a golf ball, scattering here, there, and
everywhere to seek the shelter of bush, bracken, or dried leaves, while
their mother repeats that plaintive whine, again and again, as she tries
to lead us up the hillside away from them. When we look for them again
they are all safely hidden; not one can be seen. The mother desperately
repeats her whining cry to entice us away and we walk on up to the top of
the hill and away to relieve her anxiety. Anon we hear her softly
clucking as she gathers her scattered brood.

The scarlet tanager's nest is on the horizontal limb of a big white oak.
But it is not the familiar, striking, scarlet, black-winged bird, which
sits on the ragged nest. The female is dressed in sober olive-green above
and olive-yellow below, with dusky wings and tail. Probably many an
amateur has found this bird down by the river and tried to classify her
among the fly-catchers until the coming of her handsome husband caused
him to remember that in birdland it is usually only the male part of the
population which wears the handsome clothes, just as the Indian braves
wear the gaudiest paint and the showiest feathers. It is not till we get
to the higher stages of civilization that this rule is reversed.

* * * * *