Migrations -- Early May. Middle of September. Common summer
resident.
A flash of fire through the air; a rich, high, whistled song floating in the
wake of the feathered meteor: the Baltimore oriole cannot be mistaken. When
the orchards are in blossom he arrives in full plumage and song, and awaits
the coming of the female birds, that travel northward more leisurely in
flocks. He is decidedly in evidence. No foliage is dense enough to hide his
brilliancy; his temper, quite as fiery as his feathers, leads him into noisy
quarrels, and his insistent song with its martial, interrogative notes becomes
almost tiresome until he is happily mated and family cares check his
enthusiasm.
Among the best architects in the world is his plain but energetic mate.
Gracefully swung from a high branch of some tall tree, the nest is woven with
exquisite skill into a long, flexible pouch that rain cannot penetrate, nor
wind shake from its horsehair moorings. Bits of string, threads of silk, and
sometimes yarn of the gayest colors, if laid about the shrubbery in the
garden, will be quickly interwoven with the shreds of bark and milkweed stalks
that the bird has found afield. The shape of the nest often differs, because
in unsettled regions, where hawks abound, it is necessary to make it deeper
than seven inches (the customary depth when it is built near the homes of
men), and to partly close it at the top to conceal the sitting bird.
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