THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 179 



up at that precise moment, as if to punctuate 

 my ruminations with an interrogation point ? 

 Does he like this dog-day morning, with its 

 alternate shower and sunshine, and its con- 

 stant stickiness and heat? In any case I 

 was glad to hear him, though I cannot in the 

 spirit of veracity call him a good singer. 

 Whist! There goes an oriole, a gorgeous 

 creature, flashing from one elm to another, 

 and piping in his happiest manner as he flies. 

 It might be the middle of May, to judge from 

 his behavior. He likes dog-day weather, 

 there can be no question of that, however 

 the rest of the world may grumble. 



This is a time when one sees many birds, 

 but few species. Bluebirds are several times 

 as abundant as in June. The air is sweet 

 with their calls at this moment, and once in 

 a while some father of the flock lets his hap- 

 piness run over in song. One cannot go far 

 now without finding the road full of chip- 

 ping sparrows, springing up in their pretty, 

 characteristic way, and letting the breeze 

 catch them. The fences and wayside apple- 

 trees are lively with kingbirds and phrebes. 

 I am already watching the former with a 

 kind of mournful interest. In ten days, or 



