Bird lore - Project Puffin

A Domestic Tragedy
By JULIA MOESEL, Ithaca, N. Y.
With photographs by A. A. Allen
IT WAS early in May, 19 14, when many of our feathered friends were making
their first appearance in spring. Indeed, great was the anxiety to be
among the first to greet the new arrivals as they returned from southern
climes, and greater still was that soHcitude to be able to number among them
some very rare migrant or chance summer visitant.
That May morning was an ideal one for bird-study, for there was every
indication of a most promising day. With expectancy reaching the highest
pitch, I set out determined to see everything. Following one of the shaded
paths that course the shore of a small lake on one side and a woody hill on the
other, I was attracted by some faint sounds and lisping iseeps. In the very
tree- tops, the birds were enjoying themselves. Warblers were evident: the
Black-throated Blue, the Cape May, the Chestnut-sided, the Nashville, the
Parula, the Black-throated Green, and the Blackburnian. But neither new
nor rare species could be counted among them.
Further into the depths of the wooded hillside I ventured. A strange song
greeted my ears. It was a prolonged but interrupted warble followed by a few
loud notes matchless for their tenderness and cadence. It was a melodious
song indeed; the song of the bird I had long vainly looked for but never had
the pleasure to see—the Blue-headed Vireo.
I watched him for some time, as he flitted from tree-top to tree-top, now
hiding under the dense branches of the hemlocks, then giving an occasional
musical chatter, or a pretty trilled whistle, or an enchanting short warble.
The next morning, I was determined to make a still further acquaintance
with my new friend, and no sooner had I entered the woods than I was greeted
by the selfsame song. I began to hope that he might stay with us for the spring,
but the third day he was nowhere to be found.
About ten days later, however, when I was strolling along again, gazing
among the tree-tops to see that no arrival might pass unnoticed, I was
attracted by a rattling sound among the leaves on the ground. A careful look
convinced me that it was the Blue-headed Vireo, my old friend, no doubt. He
had found a piece of waxed paper which someone had discarded and implanting
his httle feet very firmly on one corner, unaware of my presence, he started in
a very dihgent manner to tear the opposite corner into small pieces about one
centimeter square. I concluded that his nest was in the process of construction.
Cautiously I followed him, and much to my surprise, I found the place for his
new spring home in a branch of hemlock. A rather inconspicuous place had
been chosen for the site, scarcely ten feet from the ground and about twenty
feet from a much-traveled path in the woods.
I watched him while he sang at his work, every now and then returning
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