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societies declare that this bird is not common 

 about this neighorhood, but the birds for years 

 have paid no attention to the slight put upon 

 them. There were but few other species, or was 

 it too late for them to sing ? I listened for the 

 wood- thrushes, for here was an ideal home for them, 

 but they were mute or absent ; but soon the air was 

 filled with an all-pervading twitter. Every nook 

 and corner seemed alive with little birds, but the 

 sound ceased as abruptly as it started it was a 

 passing flock of redwings that I heard. This in- 

 timation of the coming autumn always has a sober- 

 ing influence, and the glitter of lilies and roses 

 was a thing of the past. Summer's freshness, that 

 I had not missed at the outset, I found was really 

 wanting. There was more seed than bloom ; 

 more fruit than blossom; more limp, leathery 

 leaves than the crisp growths of springtide. The 

 passing blackbirds told the old story of constant 

 changes : 



What of the world, that we can claim 



Is steadfast, year on year ? 

 The very rocks stay not the same, 



However they appear. 



As quickly as the seasons glide, 



Poor mortals come and go; 

 Death, the dark shadow at their side, 



They cannot overthrow. 



The shadows reached nearly across the pond 

 when I rowed back to the mill, and, seen in the 

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