40 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



look as much like a crooked branch as his supple 

 shining form would admit, the old vengeance over- 

 took him. I exercised my prerogative, and a well* 

 directed missile, in tie shape of a stone, brought him 

 looping and writhing to the ground. After I had 

 completed his downfall and quiet had been partially 

 restored, a half-fledged member of the bereaved 

 household came out from his hiding-place, and, jump- 

 ing upon a decayed branch, chirped vigorously, no 

 doubt in celebration of the victory. 



Till the middle of July there is a general equilib- 

 rium ; the tide stands poised ; the holiday-spirit is 

 unabated. But as the harvest ripens beneath the 

 long, hot days, the melody gradually ceases. The 

 young are out of the nest and must be cared for, and 

 the moulting season is at hand. After the cricket 

 has commenced to drone his monotonous refrain be- 

 neath your window, you will not, till another season, 

 hear the wood-thrush in all his matchless eloquence. 

 The bobolink has become careworn and fretful, and 

 Dlurts out snatches of his song between his scolding 

 and upbraiding, as you approach the vicinity of his 

 nest, oscillating between anxiety for his brood and 

 solicitude for his musical reputation. Some of the 

 sparrows still sing, and occasionally across the hot 

 fields, from a tall tree in the edge of the forest, comes 

 the rich note of the scarlet tauager. This tropical- 

 colored bird loves the hottest weather, and I hear him 

 even in dog-days. 



The remainder of the summer is the carnival of 



