THE tongue of a bird, says Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller, is the tool that shows how he gets his living, as the anvil and hammer tell of the blacksmith's work, the hod of the bricklayer's, and the chisel and plane of the carpenter's. The tongue of the woodpecker is a barbed spear, very adhesive or sticky on its surface. We know at a glance that he uses it to capture insects hiding in the crevices of the bark, and if they are too small to be speared by its sharp point, they will stick to its gluey surface. "The four-tined fork" of the little nuthatch is admirable for catching grubs out of the rough tree-trunk, and the slender tube of the humming-bird's tongue proves him a dainty taster of flower-sweets, though he, too, catches insects, with a click of his long, sharp bill as he flies, when flowers are rare. But there is a small bird whose tongue does not tell his own story. His tropical ancestry of many and many a year ago, like the humming-bird, sucked honey from flower-cups and juices from fruits, and so by a very curious survival of structure, this Cape May warbler that feeds on insects now has the tongue cleft at the tip and provided with a fringe like the iridescent and shining sunbird's, the honey-creeper's and flower-pecker's of southern isles. Their tongues, "pencils of delicate filaments," brush the drops of honeyed nectar from the deep tubes of tropic flowers and their sharp, needle-like bills probe the juicy fruits, though, like humming-birds, they adds small insects to their bill of fare when necessary.

This peculiarity on the part of the Cape May is the more curious because all the warblers, numerous as these are and varying as widely as possible in character, plumage and habits, are alike in one respect—they are insect-eaters. Whether they are ground warblers or haunt river side and stream or explore trunk, branch, and twig-like creepers, or glean their food from the leaves, or resemble the flycatchers in habit, they live on insects, flies, ants, canker-worms, caterpillars, gnats, the larvÆ and eggs of insects; nothing of this sort comes amiss to them. Some warblers seek this food in the tree-tops, and rarely descend; others feed on the ground and build their nests there. Many frequent lower boughs and shrubs, but all seek insects as their prey. A few, it is true, like the eccentric chat and the pretty gold-crowned thrush, who is not a thrush after all, in spite of his speckled breast, are very fond of berries. But none retain the honey-sucking habits for which the tube-like and fringed tongues, and keen, needle-like bills, were fashioned.

There is also a queer coincidence between the nest-making of the Cape May warbler and that of the flower-peckers in the Philippines Islands—another curious survival. Mr. John Whitehead, the naturalist and explorer, found a most exquisite rose-colored pouch, which looked as if formed of rose-petals, though it was in fact made of other material. The little honey-sucker had woven it together with the silken threads of a spider's web. Now, the Cape May warbler weaves his partly hanging nest of twigs and grass, and lines it with horsehair in the great fir woods of the north, but he, too, fastens it together with spider's webbing.

The Cape May is a rare warbler. Dr. Rives, in his list of Virginia birds, mentions it as "a rare migrant," though Dr. Fisher says it is sometimes comparatively common in the fall near Washington. It was, therefore, a charming surprise when (September, 1899,) I found the Cape Mays our most common migrants at Lynchburg, Va. From September 20 to October 18 our maple-tree was rarely without them. A great deal of noisy work was going on close by, as the street was being widened and newly paved, but these "tiny scraps of valor," as Emerson calls his friends, the chickadees, showed no timidity or distrust. The colors of the different birds varied widely. One could hardly believe that the adult male Cape May with his striking white on rich olive above, and his tiger-like streaks of glossy black on shining yellow below, his dark cap and chestnut-red ear-patches, belonged to the same family as the immature female. She is plain grayish olive above, and has a streaked grayish breast, as sober as a Quaker, save for her yellow rump. The Cape May, the prairie, the myrtle and the magnolia warblers are the four yellow-rumped species—a most convenient mark of distinction.

In character our little visitor showed energy and courage, usually driving off any new-comer, even of his own family, from his feeding-ground. He journeys in mixed crowds, but prefers a table to himself. He even won respect from English sparrows by his pugnacious traits. They generally let him alone, though they attacked the other strangers unmercifully. He explored his tree thoroughly, and with great agility, often spending hours in traveling from bough to bough, twig to twig, up and down our maple, and especially examining the underside of all the leaves within reach. Sometimes on tiptoe he stretched his pretty head to its farthest extent to investigate a dangling leaf above him; sometimes he hung, head downward, to clean the eggs and larvÆ from a leaf below. I have seen him dextrously somersault to a lower bough, or hold on to a slender twig, scolding and pecking alternately, as the wind-tossed him to and fro. Occasionally he sang a little song, rather thin and monotonous, but not unpleasing. It has been compared to the song of the Nashville warbler, and also to that of the black and white creeper.

The cause of his long stay was no doubt the abundance of insects during our warm fall. Swarms of gauzy-winged insects were seen everywhere, wheeling in airy circles in the sun, and sometimes covering the wraps and hats of pedestrians. There were crowds of birds in our parks. One sunny afternoon I watched with interest the likeness between a wood pewee, catching insects in the air, and a flock of Cape May warblers engaged in the same pursuit. But there was a difference; the warbler darted straight out from his magnolia tree, caught his gnat and returned, whether to the same bough I could not see for the leaves were so thick, but probably only near by. The true flycatcher fluttered in an aerial circle, returning to precisely the same perch after capturing his insect.

The tiny fringed and cleft tongues seemed useless in this occupation, but like some parts of the human body for which we have not yet ascertained the present use, they may be invaluable as records of past history under different conditions from those of to-day.

"Look at Nature. She never wearies of saying over her floral pater noster. In the crevices of Cyclopean walls—on the mounds that bury huge cities—in the dust where men lie, dust also—still that sweet prayer and benediction. The 'Amen!' of Nature is always a flower."—Autocrat.