Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 



Oriole and his mate, both singing about the 

 same notes; and the dowdy Flicker; and 

 the Meadow Lark, with his black breast- 

 plate, one by one, show themselves, most 

 of them drawing nearer and nearer, by 

 easy stages. 



How perfectly simple it all seems, com- 

 pared with some experiences we have had, 

 when, after long and tiresome walking, 

 up hill and down dale, we returned half- 

 disgusted, having seen and heard practically 

 no feathered folk worth speaking of ! 



Yet, come, come!— what of ''Tanglewood 

 lane''? We have started forward, and 

 after fifteen minutes' stiff climbing have 

 gained the rim of the woods, where we find 

 we have just about enough time left to reach 

 our CoUegeville haunt by sunset— a most 

 auspicious moment. So, through the fence 

 we go again and up the turnpike! 



And, stepping along, we quite naturally 

 begin to recall some previous sunset experi- 

 ences. For sunsets play a larger part in 

 bird-questing than those who do not know 

 may imagine. And they assume especial 

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