It is in gathering and testing the materials for a nest that the
orioles display no little ingenuity. One day, a few years ago, I was
lying under some shrubs, watching a pair of the birds that were
building close to the house. It was a typical nest-making day, the
sun pouring his bright rays through delicate green leaves and a glory
of white apple blossoms, the air filled with warmth and fragrance,
birds and bees busy everywhere. Orioles seem always happy; to-day they
quite overflowed in the midst of all the brightness, though materials
were scarce and they must needs be diligent.
The female was very industrious, never returning to the nest without
some contribution, while the male frolicked about the trees in his
brilliant orange and black, whistling his warm rich notes, and seeming
like a dash of southern sunshine amidst the blossoms. Sometimes he
stopped in his frolic to find a bit of string, over which he raised an
impromptu _jubilate_, or to fly with his mate to the nest, uttering
that soft rich twitter of his in a mixture of blarney and
congratulation whenever she found some particularly choice material.
But his chief part seemed to be to furnish the celebration, while she
took care of the nest-making.
Out in front of me, under the lee of the old wall whither some
line-stripping gale had blown it, was a torn fragment of cloth with
loose threads showing everywhere.
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