A FULL MIGRATION 



ONE of my friends, a bird lover like myself, 

 used to complain that by the end of May he 

 was worn out with much walking. His days 

 were consumed at a desk, " the cruel 

 wood," as Charles Lamb called it, but so 

 long as migrants were passing his door he 

 could not help trying to see them. Morn- 

 ing and night, therefore, he was on foot, 

 now in the woods, now in the fields, now in 

 shaded by-roads, now in bogs and swamps. 

 To see all kinds of birds, a man must go to 

 all kinds of places. Sometimes he trudged 

 miles to visit a particular spot, in which he 

 hoped to find a particular species. Before 

 the end of the month he must have one hun- 

 dred and twenty or one hundred and twenty- 

 five names in his "monthly list;" and to 

 accomplish this, much leg-work was necessary. 

 I knew how to sympathize with him. 

 Short as May is, too short by half, I 



