SCARLET TANAGER. 147 
the leaves of “ Paradise” burn with the tints of 
sunset. 
On the desolate margin of “ Purgatory” you 
rarely see a human face, unless that of some poor 
soul-tormented lunatic who has strayed from the 
asylum on the hill. But in “ Paradise” you meet 
groups of merry children, college girls gathering 
wild flowers, and all the town in gala-day attire. 
This is the haunt of the birds, and here the 
Smith Audubon Society has gathered about Mr. 
Burroughs, listening to his interpretation of the 
chippering of the swifts that circle far overhead ; 
hearkening with him to the yellow hammer’s cries, 
and watching the happy goldfinches, busy in the 
button-wood tops. Here each level has its bird — 
from the leaves, the oven-bird sends up his cres- 
cendo; from among the bushes comes the quarry- 
ing note of the white-throats ; low on the boughs 
of the trees the thrushes sit wrapt in meditation ; 
in the top of a sapling the indigo-bird sings of 
the white violets beneath him; from the hemlocks 
and pines come the screams of the blue jays: 
over the river the kingfisher flies, sounding his 
alarm on the wing; and high overhead the soar- 
ing hawk circles in silence. 
One spring morning when we were in one of 
the most beautiful spots of all Paradise, where a 
tiny rill spreads out over the sand, bathing the 
roots of the bright green grass and the blue for- 
get-me-nots, a true bird of Paradise came flying 
