When it dives into the deepest part of the tangle, where you can imagine
it hunting about among the roots and fallen leaves for the larvae,
caterpillars, spiders, and other insects on which it feeds, it sometimes
amuses itself with a simple little song between the hunts. But the bird's
indifference, you feel sure, arises from preoccupation rather than rudeness.
If, however, your visit to the undergrowth is unfortunately timed and there
happens to be a bulky nest in process of construction on the ground, a quickly
repeated, vigorous chit, pit, quit, impatiently inquires the reason for your
bold intrusion. Withdraw discreetly and listen to the love-song that is
presently poured out to reassure his plain little maskless mate. The music is
delivered with all the force and energy of his vigorous nature and penetrates
to a surprising distance. "Follow me, follow me, follow me," many people hear
him say; others write the syllables, "Wichity, wichity, wichity, wichity"; and
still others write them, "I beseech you, I beseech you, I beseech you," though
the tones of this self-assertive bird rather command than entreat. Mr. Frank
Chapman says of the yellowthroats: "They sing throughout the summer, and in
August add a flight-song to their repertoire. This is usually uttered toward
evening, when the bird springs several feet into the air, hovers for a second,
and then drops back to the bushes.
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