A MONTH'S MUSIC. 



THE morning of May-day was bright and 

 spring-like, and should have been signalized, it 

 seemed to me, by the advent of a goodly num- 

 ber of birds ; but the only new-comer to be found 

 was a single black-and-white creeper. Glad as 

 I was to see this lowly acquaintance back again 

 after his seven months' absence, and natural as 

 he looked on the edge of Warbler Swamp, bob- 

 bing along the branches in his own unique, end- 

 for-end fashion, there was no resisting a sensa- 

 tion of disappointment. Why could not the 

 wood thrush have been punctual? He would 

 have made the woods ring with an ode worthy 

 of the festival. Possibly the hermits who 

 had been with us for several days in silence 

 divined my thoughts. At all events, one of them 

 presently broke into a song the first Hylo- 

 cichla note of the year. Never was voice more 

 beautiful. Like the poet's dream, it " left my 

 after-morn content." 



It is too much to be expected that the wood 



