A WORLD FULL OF BABIES. 263 



times on the way we paused, lured by an ec- 

 static note, but every one too far off to be com- 

 pletely heard. 



In our quiet walk back through the dark 

 woods I accepted my evident fate, that I was 

 not to be blessed with hermit music this season; 

 but I made a private resolve to find next year a 

 ''hermit neighborhood," where birds should be 

 warranted to sing, if I had to take a tent and 

 camp out in a swamp. 



June passed away in delightful bird -study, 

 and July followed quickly. Nests and songs in 

 plenty rewarded our search. Every day had 

 been full. Nothing had been wanting to fill our 

 cup of content, except the longed-for song of the 

 hermit; and I had been so absorbed I had al- 

 most ceased to regret it. 



With the last days of July ever^^thing was 

 changed about us. The world w^as full of bird 

 babies. Infant voices rang out from every 

 tangle; flutters of baby wings stirred every 

 bush; the woods echoed to anxious "pips," and 

 "smacks, "and "quits," of uneasy parents work- 

 ing for dear life. We had been so occupied 

 with our study of these charming youngsters, 

 that we bethought ourselves, only as one after 

 another strange warbler appeared uj^on the scene, 

 that migrating time had arrived, the wonderful 

 procession to the summer-land had begun. 



