A MONTH’S MUSIC. 
——_——= 
THE morning of May-day was bright and 
spring-like, and should have been signalized, it 
seemed to me, by the advent of a goodly num- 
ber of birds ; but the only new-comer to be found 
was a single black-and-white creeper. Glad as 
I was to see this lowly acquaintance back again 
after his seven months’ absence, and natural as 
he looked on the edge of Warbler Swamp, bob- 
bing along the branches in his own unique, end- 
for-end fashion, there was no resisting a sensa- 
tion of disappointment. Why could not the 
wood thrush have been punctual? He would 
have made the woods ring with an ode worthy 
of the festival. Possibly the hermits — who 
had been with us for several days in silence — 
divined my thoughts. Atall events, one of them 
presently broke into a song —the first Hylo- 
cichla note of the year. Never was voice more 
beautiful. Like the poet’s dream, it “left my 
after-morn content.” 
It is too much to be expected that the wood 
