70 B F- WA YS AND BIRD-NO TES. 



I bowled along at a good rate with my head 

 high, taking in deep draughts of the whole- 

 some air ; a long row of beehives in a garden, 

 with the busy workers stirring on their little 

 porches, sweetened the scene with a thought 

 of big white honey-combs and snowy muffins. 

 A fair,, yellow-haired child was standing on 

 a stile as I ran past the house, and she looked 

 at me with great surprised blue eyes, holding 

 meantime her little sun-bonnet in her hands. 

 A big brown dog left her side and ran bark- 

 ing after me in a good-natured way for some 

 distance, then turned and leisurely trotted 

 back. A little farther on I stopped to watch 

 a pair of cat-birds in a bit of hedge. They 

 seemed to be looking for a good place in which 

 to build their nest, for the female had a slender 

 wisp of dry grass in her mouth. Up and 

 down and in and out they went, all the time 

 uttering their peculiar mewing cry. Finally 

 the male mounted to the highest branch of the 

 hedge and poured forth a sweet, trickling 

 medley, not unlike the night-song of the South- 

 ern mocking-bird, though of far slenderer vol- 

 ume and inferior timbre. Why is it that the 

 country folk have a contempt for the cat-bird ? 

 I have found this beautiful little songster under 

 a ban from Michigan to Florida, with no one 

 to say a good word for it, and yet, the mock- 

 ing-bird and brown-thrush excepted, it has 

 no rival in America as a singer. 



Driving on again my road soon began to 

 descend, growing steeper and steeper, until at 

 length I put my feet on the rest, and, with 

 hand on the brake, coasted at dizzying speed 

 round a long curve down into a dense wood 

 of maple, walnut, and plane trees that bor- 



