6 Massachusetts Audubon Society 



In addition to our avifauna, many beautiful flowers attracted the atten- 

 tion of our Bird Day visitors. The spring beauty, the shooting star, and 

 the yellow lady's-slipper were all in bloom, as were also five different 

 kinds of trillimns. Vegetation as a whole seems considerably behind that 

 of last year when our Bird Day was held here (May 18th), and most of the 

 ferns have not yet unfolded. 



The day ended with rain. After the last of our guests had departed, 

 and the little old farmhouse under the big elms had again assumed its 

 hermit-like solitude, I went out upon the ledge to watch from my favorite 

 perch the closing of the day and the coming of the evening shadows from 

 across the valley. A great whirr of wings greeted me as I opened the door 

 and stepped out upon the stone porch. It seemed as if all my feathered 

 friends of the dooryard had gathered for a last bit of lunch and to say 

 good-night before I left them. More than a score of purple finches, several 

 chipping sparrows, grosbeaks and the white-crowned sparrow were here, 

 and I thought how much worth while are all our efforts to preserve and 

 protect them. 



Out upon the ledge all was quiet. Soon a chewink called, and then 

 another; a tanager sang from the oaks close by in Tanager Woods; a black 

 and white warbler came flitting through the trees singing for his supper, 

 and a prairie warbler mounted a birch sapling in Chewink Hollow, just 

 below the ledge, and repeated his little ascending trill of insect-like notes. 

 The chorus of the frogs soon began in the little laurel-encircled pool below 

 the rocky hillside, and as the colors softened and the dusk deepened, an 

 oven-bird mounted upward toward the light, and on fluttering wings de- 

 scended with his outburst of melody. This was repeated again and again. 

 Then clear but faintly across the valley from the distant pines came the 

 sweet "Good night" which I had come to hear, — the pure, tranquil strains 

 of the hermit thrush, tl-.e song which to me is the embodiment of all that 

 is beautiful among the hills and valleys from which it emanates. 



Ere these sounds had mingled into a quiet murmuring, as the day 

 nestled into the arms of night, a scene none the less beautiful, but more 

 spectacular, appeared to end the day. A rapid gathering of storm clouds 

 appeared over the valley, soon forming into a distinct, dark bank toward 

 the southeastern range of hills, and leaving beneath it a band of clear light 

 over the horizon, which set off most beautifully the vari-colored hills 

 beneath it. As I stood watching it, the hills to the south became suddenly 

 obliterated and the storm broke, moving eastward across the valley and 

 enveloping all in a thick, driving rain as it came. Only those who have 

 watched a storm among the hills know the beauty and grandeur of such a 

 scene, and it was with some reluctance that I returned within doors, to 

 muse over the events of the day and to plan for our next annual Bird Day 

 at the Moose Hill Bird Sanctuary. 



THE YOUNG PHCEBES. 



By Harriet B. Audubon, of Louisville, Kentucky, 



Grand-daughter of John James Audubon. 



For many years I had longed to see a family of young birds fly out of 

 the nest, but met with no success until the summer of 1917, while spending 

 a few weeks at Woodbridge, Connecticut. 



A pair of phoebes had built a nest at the top of the front door on what 



