A SHELTERING COVE. 161 



to patter, I reluctantly start homeward, but 

 stop by the side of the clump of prickly ash in 

 the valley beyond. Here, partially sheltered 

 from the fierce gusts, I watch for several min- 

 utes a bevy of yellow-rumped warblers. They 

 flit from twig to twig of the shrubs, and at 

 short intervals dart into the air and catch a 

 fuzzy gnat or other form of flying insect. Oc- 

 casionally one of them utters a series of short, 

 dull twitters. A blue jay scolds at me from the 

 top of a near-by butternut. A chickadee calls 

 his cheery notes not far away. A flicker flits 

 from maple to oak, and a red-head goes by cleav- 

 ing the air in undulating line. If one wishes 

 to see bird life on such a breezy autumn day he 

 must forsake the uplands and seek the shelter 

 of some cove, where shrubs and trees abound. 

 It is there that insects still live an active life, 

 there that the cool, penetrating blasts of air are 

 shunted over and beyond the feathered forms 

 which yet abide with us. 



It is never "to-morrow." It is never "yester- 

 day." It is ever to-day. We dream of to-mor- 



(ii) 



