1 66 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



XXXI. 



As I cross the meadow and climb the 

 hill in the morning to watch the growing 

 walls, the tantalizing fog veiling and soft 

 ening the heights but holding out little 

 promise of rain, Mr. and Mrs. Robert of 

 Lincoln give me their daily greeting. I 

 fear that it is not all a manifestation of 

 affection, but rather of alarm and solici 

 tude for the brood hidden somewhere near 

 by, among the tall grass. Mrs. Lincoln 

 speaks prose in a pleasant chirping tone, 

 but Robert has a very musical voice, and is 

 lavish in its use. According to Wilson, he 

 should now be changing his colour, and 

 growing like unto his mate, but my friend 

 is brilliant, a dSep black on his breast and 

 under side, and bright creamy yellow and 

 white upon much of the upper part of his 

 body and wings, much richer than my 

 copy of Wilson represents him ; while 

 madam, on the contrary, is considerably 

 duller than as represented, having a gen 

 eral brownish tone, tinged with yellow. 



