Under the Oaks and Elsewhere 



their season, survey the country from many an 

 oak tree's top. When the leaves are mere 

 babies, pink, yellow and fuzzy, and the level 

 rays of the rising sun add to their beauty, have 

 a host of Canadian warblers wander through 

 the tree-top's twiggy maze, as I saw them re- 

 cently, and one picture of the round year is 

 complete. This, in May. When the bare 

 branches of the same old oak are lined against 

 a pitiless, cold sky, let them be suddenly flooded 

 with the ruddy light of the setting sun and at 

 the same moment have a goodly company of 

 waxwings as suddenly appear, lisp a few sylla- 

 bles and vanish, and another story is told. 

 This, in December. 



Elsewhere, at certain seasons, the rambler's 

 pathway may not lead to Elysium. The outlook 

 may be depressing and visions of the fireside 

 dim the scant merit of the out-door world. 

 Never so, under the oaks. They are ever suffi- 

 cient. They make the accessories of summer 

 luxuries, such as they are, no hardship to fore- 

 go. Many a year has passed since I learned 

 this, and to-day, for the ten thousandth time, 

 the Carolina wren announced it in his masterful 



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