22 AN IDLER ON MISSION AMY RIDGE. 



upon the dusty road above me. How amiable 

 a power is contrast — on its softer side ! I 

 think of the eager, bloody, sweaty, raging 

 men, who once stormed up these slopes, kill- 

 ing and being killed. The birds know no- 

 thing of all that. It might have been thou- 

 sands of years ago. The very trees have for- 

 gotten it. Two or three cows come feeding 

 down the glade, with the lazy tinkle of a bell. 

 And now my new friend, the blue-winged 

 yellow warbler, sings across the path (across 

 the aisle, I was going to say), but only two 

 or three times, and with only two insignifi- 

 cant lisping syllables. The chary soul ! He 

 sings to the eye, I suppose. I go over to 

 look at him, and my sudden movement star- 

 tles the thrushes, who, finding themselves 

 again in the singers' gallery, cannot refrain 

 from another chorus. At the same moment 

 the Canadian warbler comes into sight again, 

 this time in a tupelo. The blue-wings are 

 found without difficulty ; they have a call 

 like the black-and-white creeper's. A single 

 rough-winged swallow skims above the tree- 

 tops. I have seen him here before, and one 

 or two others like him. 



As I return to the bed of the valley, a 



