THE PASSING OF THE BIKDS. 



" The Bird of Time has but a little way 

 To flutter and the Bird is on the Wing." 



OMAR KHAYYAM. 



BY the first of August the bird-lover's 

 year is already on the wane. In the chest- 

 nut grove, where a month ago the wood 

 thrush, the rose-breasted grosbeak, and the 

 scarlet tanager were singing, the loiterer now 

 hears nothing but the wood pewee's pensive 

 whistle and the sharp monotony of the red- 

 eyed vireo. The thrasher is silent in the 

 berry pasture, and the bobolink in the 

 meadow. The season of jollity is over. 

 Orioles, to be sure, after a month of silence, 

 again have fits of merry fifing. The field 

 sparrow and the song sparrow are still in 

 tune, and the meadow lark whistles, though 

 rarely. Catbirds still practice their feeble 

 improvisations and mimicries in the thickets 

 along the brooksides as evening comes on, 

 and of the multitudes of robins a few are 



