THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. £TE 
certain to be heard warbling before the day 
is over. Goldfinches have grown suddenly 
numerous, or so it seems, and not infre- 
quently one of them breaks out in musical 
canary-like twitterimgs. On moonlight even- 
ings the tremulous, haunting cry of the 
screech-owl comes to your ears, always from 
far away, and if you walk through the chest- 
nut grove aforesaid in the daytime you may 
chance to catch his faint, vibratory, tree- 
frog whistle. For myself, I never enter the 
grove without glancing into the dry top of a 
certain tall tree, to see whether the little ras- 
cal is sitting in his open door. More than 
half the time he is there, and always with 
his eye on me. What an air he has! — like 
a judge on the bench! If I were half as 
wise as he looks, these essays of mine would 
never more be dull. For his and all other 
late summer music let us be thankful; but 
it is true, nevertheless, that the year is wan- 
ing. How short it has been! Only the 
other day the concert opened, and already 
the performers are uneasy to be gone. They 
have crowded so much into so brief a space! 
The passion of a life-time into the quarter 
of a year! They are impatient to be gone, 
