A MONTH'S MUSIC. 



The morning of May-day was bright and 

 spring-like, and sliould have been signalized, it 

 seemed to me, by the advent of a goodly num- 

 ber of birds ; but the only new-comer to be found 

 was a single black-and-white creeper. Glad as 

 I was to see this lowly acquaintance back again 

 after his seven months' absence, and natural as 

 he looked on the edge of Warbler Swamp, bob- 

 bing along the branches in his own unique, end- 

 for-end fashion, there was no resisting a sensa- 

 tion of disappointment. Why could not the 

 wood thrush have been punctual? He would 

 have made the woods ring with an ode worthy 

 of the festival. Possibly the hermits — who 

 had been with us for several days in silence — 

 divined my thoughts. At all events, one of them 

 presently broke into a song — the first Hylo- 

 cichla note of the year. Never was voice more 

 beautiful. Like the poet's dream, it " left my 

 after-morn content." 



It is too much to be expected that the wood 



