46 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



decayed branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt 

 in celebration of the victory. 



Till the middle of July there is a gen- 

 eral equilibrium ; the tide stands poised ; the 

 holiday-spirit is unabated. But as the har- 

 vest ripens beneath the long, hot days, the 

 melody gradually ceases. The young are 

 out of the nest and must be cared for, and 

 the moulting season is at hand. After the 

 cricket has commenced to drone his monoto- 

 nous refrain beneath your window, you will 

 not, till another season, hear the wood-thrush 

 in all his matchless eloquence. The bobo- 

 link has become careworn and fretful, and 

 blurts out snatches of his song between his 

 scolding and upbraiding, as you approach 

 the vicinity of his nest, oscillating between 

 anxiety for his brood and solicitude for his 

 musical reputation. Some of the sparrows 

 still sing, and occasionally across the hot 

 fields, from a tall tree in the edge of the 

 forest, comes the rich note of the scarlet 

 tanager. This tropical-colored bird loves 

 the hottest weather, and I hear him even in 

 dog-days. 



The remainder of the summer is the car- 

 nival of the swallows and fly-catchers. Flies 

 and insects, to any amount, are to be had 



