212 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



maintain the belief among the creatures of the 

 forest that it belongs to them. 



It was seven o'clock as the stage rolled up to 

 the cottage door, left us, turned around and 

 departed. Inside, a fire blazed on the old 

 hearth, and the bark on the birch logs sputtered 

 and crackled like burning fat. Outside, the rain 

 fell softly, making a pleasant murmur on the 

 leaves, a murmur which blended with the voices 

 of crickets, tree toads, hylas, and frogs. As 

 night fell and the fire burned low, the clock and 

 the whippoorwills began a conversation which 

 lasted long, perhaps till morning. 



A rainy morning does not discourage birds. 

 They are just as hungry, and almost if not quite 

 as tuneful as on other days. The morning of 

 the 30th of May was warm and wet, but the air 

 was as full of bird notes as of rain drops. A 

 white-throated sparrow sang pea-pea-peabody, 

 peabody, peabody, under my window ; a cat- 

 bird in the grape-vine in front of the house rev- 

 elled in a medley of notes, hermit thrushes ren- 

 dered their sweet phrases from three neighboring 

 groves, and red-eyed vireos, chestnut-sided war- 

 blers, redstarts, ovenbirds, barn-swallows, and 

 swifts filled in any gaps with their joyous voices. 

 A pair of catbirds were building their nests in the 

 lilac bush at the corner of the cottage, so near a 

 window that a long arm could reach it. The 



