THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 



THERE are days in May when the northwest 

 wind sweeps through the trees with the bluster- 

 ing rush of September air. It seems to be test- 

 ing the young foliage and warning the soft, 

 glossy, newly unfolded leaves of the fate which 

 attends them only a few weeks later in the year. 

 It is rough with the apple blossoms piled high 

 upon the orchard's open arms, and it waves to 

 and fro the " Christmas candles " of the horse- 

 chestnut trees. On its breath is wafted the per- 

 fume of lilacs, or the pungent message of pine 

 woods burning, in spots left too long dry by the 

 fickle spring rains. There is a chill in this 

 turbulent air, not the damp chill of the east 

 wind, but the chill which has in it a faint sug- 

 gestion of autumnal frosts. Even after the wind 

 goes to sleep at sunset the air remains cold, and 

 farmers wonder if there is to be a late frost. 



Sunday, May 17, was such a day, and, as 

 the woods were too full of noise and waving 

 leaves for birds to be either heard or seen, my 

 friend and I went to Rock Meadow to visit my 

 bittern. We reached the willows at four in the 



