CHAPTER 11. 



WAITING FOR WARBLERS. 



THERE are days in every year that are all too 

 short and others that are immeasurably drawn 

 out Of the latter class is the April day when we 

 take our initial outing for a set purpose and spend 

 long hours waiting for warblers. All through the 

 previous night the moon had made plain the familiar 

 migratory route, and the last trace of the March 

 winds had been smothered by the sweets of swelling 

 blossoms. Early violets and the lilacs are now ready 

 to welcome the expected guests, and surely they 

 must be near at hand ; but somehow they do not 

 come. Never, it may be, were the thickets in such 

 fine disorder, and the April sunshine has warmed the 

 dead grasses of last year until the air above them 

 quivers ; but not even the flirt-tails, those speckled, 

 red-polled warblers that always get here ahead of 

 their cousins, will come. We wait all day for 

 nothing, and go home both tired and discouraged ; 

 but we were ahead of time, and not the birds. To- 

 morrow was the appointed time, but we never learn 

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