From Pillar to Post 



The crow wanders from the leafy wilderness 

 of the tree-tops, circling in mid-air as if without 

 a purpose, and only hurries away when vicious- 

 ly attacked by a king bird. The redwings, that 

 have recently gathered, come from many an 

 upland swamp, leisurely seeking the tide- 

 washed marsh, and exert themselves no more 

 than feeding calls for. The uncertain robins 

 still question whether it is time to give up their 

 summer habits, but finally unite their forces, 

 and, as an ill-formed troop, go bungling along 

 over hill and dale. The bobolink of springtide 

 days is here again, but, in the sober guise of a 

 reed bird, utters only a single note, not so much 

 an eloquent lament on the passing of summer 

 as it is a voicing of August's meditative days. 

 I know it, above many another, as a bird-note 

 that leads to retrospection on my part; sober, 

 sad retrospection formerly, but not so now. I 

 no longer wish that summer lasted through all 

 the months. I follow now the example set by 

 the blue birds that throng the air. Whatever 

 the time of year theirs is a hopeful song. A 

 change continuous from grave to gay, but no 

 such dark foreboding as from life to death. 

 August now, and nearing the end of summer, 



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