Yellowbreast Chat

At times hiding with Indian elusiveness, then parading boldly and shouting like the ballyhoo man of a Med Show, this goldenbreast artist is perhaps our most individual bird. With nothing of the Warbler in voice or manner they have been placed in that family because systematists decided that was the only place where they fitted.

Long before vaudeville and jazz were inflicted, CHATS were giving performances from the Atlantic to Pacific.

Nearly all birds and animals, including the Honorable Mr. Sapiens, are lured by curiosity. One May morning a Chat in the valley, reiterated Come here! come here! COME HERE! so persistently that I went among the alders and sat on an old down maple trunk. The invitation call changed to wut, wut, wut you du'in here? Then silence.

My pipe smoke rose lazily — a Swamp Sparrow and YELLOWTHROAT looked me over casually. Some leaves trembled near a white birch tip. Something was there but I could not see how it had gotten in for that sapling had been within my vision for five minutes. One leaf seemed a little lighter green — ah — a glimpse of yellow — now what?

Plenty. A low ventriloquistic series of chuckles — the actor was peeking thru the curtain — the audience was in his seat. Now!

The interlocutor queried — the end man answered and laughed at his own joke. That is not artistry, Icteria! but I forgave the lapse — the audience grinned too. A slight pause.

How's that?

More jokes — then Kreisler touched The Old Refrain, bits of old songs, older chanties, drifted over the pale green foliage and in the midst of "Roll a man down," the sailor sprang aloft. Head, wings and tail bobbing spasmodically with a medley of calls, whistles and notes that it seemed as tho boatswain, clown and visitors were striving to shout each other down.

There it is — as nearly as my pen can ink it — but the only way to sense the Chat's originality is to go into his own country and listen. If you can catch one in the mood some moonlit night — you will remember the experience.