178 THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 



I say; but who knows how many of them 

 are gone already? Where are the blue gol- 

 den-winged warblers that sang daily on the 

 edge of the wood opposite my windows, so 

 that I listened to them at my work ? I have 

 heard nothing of their rough dsee, dsee since 

 the 21st of June, and in all that time have 

 seen them but once a single bird, a young- 

 ling of the present year, stumbled upon by 

 accident while pushing my way through a 

 troublesome thicket on the first day of Au- 

 gust. Who knows, I say, how many such 

 summer friends have already left us? An 

 odd coincidence, however, warns me at this 

 very moment that too much is not to be made 

 of merely negative experiences; for even 

 while I was penciling the foregoing sentence 

 about the blue golden -wing there came 

 through the open window the hoarse upward- 

 sliding chant of his close neighbor, the prairie 

 warbler. I have not heard that sound be- 

 fore since the 6th of July, and it is now the 

 22d of August. The singers had not gone, 

 I knew ; I saw several of them (and beauti- 

 ful creatures they are !) a few days ago among 

 the pitch pines ; but why did that fellow, af- 

 ter being dumb for six or seven weeks, pipe 



