This uncle of mine is an avid birder—he knows all the birds. And this morning he oriented me to the swarming birding world of one Mt Auburn Cemetery. Studying the chalkboard at the entrance which listed the sighted birds, my aunt said, "they're all like little gems, that fly into the park each week."

In spite of myself I rather enjoyed it. There is something in catching a glimpse of color in the trees, then searching it out with the ol' spyglass, and finally—there!—spotting the thing, and watching it: wiggle, fluff, raise it's wing (as if checking on a suitcase?). Lots of boring birds were around, but I saw some nifty ones—identified with the help of the pros, of course. In brief: Baltimore Oriole, a bright orange bird; Wilson's warbler—yellow like a buttercup, with a black cap; Black Phoebe—like something mythical; Two buluejays playing—them of the cubist Hapsburg helmets; Least flycatcher.

I like the trope of "least" in bird names. Best of all is "least bittern" which also has a nice habit of "spread eagling" itself between two reeds. Wish I could do that!

Cheeky child name: "Least Cooper."