THE LA RUE HOLMES NATURE LOVERS LEAGUE. 



37 



The Song Sparrow. 



February 27th is the date of his com- 

 ing. I know that he is here by the 

 song on the night;, given from the 

 woodbine a few feet beyond my win- 

 dow. From then on J mav hear him at 

 any time, from dusk to dawn, giving 

 a song, low and sweet, as though it 

 were a song from the sphere of dreams. 



lie always conies alone, and sings 

 his day-songs to me, from the wood- 

 bine wreaths or the twigs of forsythia. 

 A little later Airs. Song-Sparrow comes 

 to flit in and out where she wove her 

 cradle the May before. 



They are late on the wing, these 

 lovers in feathers. When all birds 



the aerial pathway homeward, or 

 away ! 



Above are some of the notes that fol- 

 low me wherever I go about the gar- 

 den. Almost anywhere I can look up 

 to some near-by twig, or downward, 

 and find this especial little friend, who 

 is not like the other members of his 

 family who give us lots of Song Spar- 

 row music around the grounds. These 

 seem to sing for each other alone. 

 This little pair, 1 feel sure, desire to 

 chat and sing to me; to tell me of lifes 

 woes and successes — I am seldom alone 

 in Song Sparrow time, nor without 

 music of the friendliest, sweetest kind. 

 G. K. 



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notes are hushed, and the twilight has 

 well faded out, the two flit up in the 

 woodbine, to see that all is well, and 

 down again to the ground, to hunt over 

 a bit of the wild flower garden, for the 

 last installment of supper. 



They are too late on the wing, some- 

 times for my comfort, for it is my 

 general rule to see these little friends 

 flit up to covert before I respond to the 

 dinner-call — food is scarcely a subject 

 for consideration when one wants to 

 know if evening has brought safelv 

 bar'' such dear, wandering wings. 



About eight feet above ground the 

 cradle is twined in the woodbine, and 

 what a flood of music wings from some 

 favored little twig, the resting-place in 



The Unknown Known. 



Many a sweet story of nature's 

 secrets floats in, unaware, on the 

 thread of conversation, from those 

 who haunt the woods, 01 read volumes 

 in stones of a village pathway. Why 

 is it that such bits of personal observa- 

 tion are so difficult to obtain in writ- 

 ing? Are not words as easily written 

 wonderous as spoken? 



It is unfortunately true that only the 

 comparatively few see the infinite in 

 beauty along the wayside, and who in 

 seeing know anything of the won- 

 drous life-history of what they see. or, 

 in knowing it try to give it to another 

 in words. Were this not so, how much 

 richer the world would be in that joy 



