THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 
‘* The Bird of Time has but a little way 
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.” 
Omar KuayyAm. 
By the first of August the bird-lover’s 
year is already on the wane. In the chest- 
nut grove, where a month ago the wood 
thrush, the rose-breasted grosbeak, and the 
scarlet tanager were singing, the loiterer now 
hears nothing but the wood pewee’s pensive 
whistle and the sharp monotony of the red- 
eyed vireo. The thrasher is silent in the 
berry pasture, and the bobolink in the 
meadow. The season of jollity is over. 
Orioles, to be sure, after a month of silence, 
again have fits of merry fifing. The field 
sparrow and the song sparrow are still in 
tune, and the meadow lark whistles, though 
rarely. Catbirds still practice their feeble 
improvisations and mimicries in the thickets 
along the brooksides as evening comes on, 
and of the multitudes of robins a few are 
