AMERICAN ORNITHOLOOY. 251 



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p TO BED WITH THE BIRDS. ^ 



There has ahvays been a mysterious charm to me about the last half 

 hour of the bird day. This fascination is only fully feit when I go to 

 bed, not only zc/w// the birds do, but as they do, in a little nook of my 

 own choosing. Some Cluster of firs that promises shelter and dark- 

 ness, or some hollow in the hills that holds all night the warmth of the 

 sun and lets the wind go by overhead. In such a spot, unknovvn to 

 the rest of the world, I can Stretch out on fragrant fir-boughs or mead- 

 o\v hay, just as the sun has set. Fora few moments I, like the birds, 

 am filled with joy and thankfulness at this "Great wide wonderful 

 beautiful world." How small and safe I feel! Then only to realize 

 how little we need, and how only in such a life can one feel with the 

 wise one who "Having nothing, yet hath all." 



And now the birds voice this feeling for us more perfectly than any 

 any human poetry can. As I hear the Lazuli Bunting's reedy pipe 

 from the eider bush, and the Tanager's strain from the fall fir, seeming 

 to call out "Higher, clearer, sweeter, happier, dearer;" the Russet- 

 backed Thrush with his "Cordelia, Cordelia, Cordelia," from the thick- 

 er vvoods, and the Vireo warbling in the aspens, I know that each little 

 heart is füll of content and that they have what is best for them. But 

 now the chorus ceases. There comes a hush as of expectation. Now 

 many birds seem to bethink them of one last thing to be done before 

 the curtains are drawn for the night. A Robin goes hurrying by with 

 a childishly serious look at me out of his round eye, as if to say, "Dont 

 delay me, I have important business to attend to." The Lazuli Bunt- 

 ing makes one last circuit of his singing trees and settles down with a 

 quiet crooning noise just over the nest where his little brown mate is 

 brooding her eggs, as if to say, "My beauty cannot härm you now, 

 though I am careful to keep out of sight all day." The Grosbeak 

 brings a last morsel to his wife and talks to reassure her in his sweet- 

 est tones, a sort of bird baby-talk. The Flicker slips into her hole, 

 with a glance around to see if she has been observed. 



I always fancy it is as if they were playing a game of hide and seek 



with our Barth Mother, and as if she said, "Now quick children, hide 



yourselves safely, and don't let me hear a sound tili morning." And 



all scurry into their places, with soft hush-words, while their mother 



hides her eyes. Only when you think of the Owls and prowling night 



creatures, you cannot but hope that it really is a game to them, and 



that they do not know that their life is in danger every night, as soon 



as they close their eyes. 



AxxA Head. 



