Impressions 



judges for itself as to the weather, and to set up 

 our standards for its guidance is to publish 

 our own foolishness. We forget this potent 

 fact too often. 



At noon, on a recent May day, the warbling 

 vireo and its red-eyed cousin were heard about 

 the house, and in vain, to get rid of them, did 

 I go farther and farther afield. Both have 

 querulous, tiresome songs, that become posi- 

 tively exasperating, when we wish to listen to 

 the less pronounced notes of other birds. 

 There is nothing suggestive in their monot- 

 onous reiteration, unless we look upon each 

 utterance as the death-knell of an insect, and 

 we need not add this to our many reminders of 

 Death's activity. The clock struck the hour, 

 but a moment ago. An hour has just passed 

 away, and by so much we passed with it. Give 

 us livelier birds ; one like the chat that amuses, 

 the thrush that soothes, the lark that exhil- 

 arates, or even the crow that leads me, at least, 

 to pleasing retrospection. I shun the red-eyed 

 vireo before the summer is gone, for it becomes 

 ere then like the mumble of senile dementia. 



If I am completely happy when crossing a 

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