THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 177 



certain to be heard warbling before the day 

 is over. Goldfinches have grown suddenly 

 numerous, or so it seems, and not infre- 

 quently one of them breaks out in musical 

 canary -like twitterings. On moonlight even- 

 ings the tremulous, haunting cry of the 

 screech-owl comes to your ears, always from 

 far away, and if you walk through the chest- 

 nut grove aforesaid in the daytime you may 

 chance to catch his faint, vibratory, tree- 

 frog whistle. For myself, I never enter the 

 grove without glancing into the dry top of a 

 certain tall tree, to see whether the little ras- 

 cal is sitting in his open door. More than 

 half the time he is there, and always with 

 his eye on me. What an air he has ! like 

 a judge on the bench! If I were half as 

 wise as he looks, these essays of mine would 

 never more be dull. For his and all other 

 late summer music let us be thankful ; but 

 it is true, nevertheless, that the year is wan- 

 ing. How short it has been! Only the 

 other day the concert opened, and already 

 the performers are uneasy to be gone. They 

 have crowded so much into so brief a space ! 

 The passion of a life-time into the quarter 

 of a year ! They are impatient to be gone, 



