A BUNCH OF BRIGHT BIRDS 291 



had made too little of it. It is altogether likely 

 that I shall never see another bird of his kind. 

 For now those cloudless Arizona days, the 

 creosote-covered desert, and the mountain ranges 

 standing round about it, are all for me as things 

 past and done ; a bright memory, and no more. 

 One event conspired with another to put a sudden 

 end to my visit (which was already longer than 

 I had planned), and on the last day of March I 

 walked for the last time under that row of " leaf- 

 less ash trees," no longer quite leafless, and no 

 longer with a painted redstart in them, and 

 over that piece of winding road between the 

 craggy hill and the river. Now I courted not the 

 sun, but the shade ; it was the sun, more than 

 anything else, that was hurrying me away, when 

 I would gladly have stayed longer ; but sunny 

 or shady, I stopped a bit in each of the more 

 familiar places. Nobody knew or cared that I 

 was taking leave. All things remained as they 

 had been. The same rock wrens were practicing 

 endless vocal variations here and there upon 

 the stony hillside ; the same fretful verdin was 

 talking about something, it was beyond me to 

 tell what, with the old emphatic monotony ; the 

 hummingbird stood on the tip of his mesquite 

 bush, still turning his head eagerly from side to 

 side, as if he expected her, and wondered why on 



