34 By Leafy Ways. 



flying gleams of sunlight and barred with soft blue 

 shadows, and balmy with the breath of trees and 

 flowers, the green vista of the woodlands is like a 

 vision of enchantment, we miss many of the songsters 

 who but a month ago seemed to have no thought but 

 to fill the glades with music. 



(_ Most birds leave off singing, to a great extent, when 

 their days are filled with their family cares. And now, 

 on every hand, from banks and thickets, and from 

 holes in ancient trees, come the cries of hungry 

 broods. 



Many infant aeronauts are ready for their first flight, 

 and after standing long on the edge of the nest, whose 

 circle has so far been the limit of their small experi- 

 ence, and watching with wide wondering eyes the 

 skilful evolutions of their anxious parents, the timid 

 children of the air spread doubtful wings to fly. 



Some birds are singing yet. A still unmated black- 

 bird whistles loud his mellow musical notes. The 

 rippling song of the willow wren is as light and breezy 

 as if no thought of household cares could weigh 

 heavily on him, and as if the dainty nest down there 

 on the bank below him were no concern of his. The 

 blackcap, too, as he flits here and there in the cool 

 shadows of the underwood, still sings a few rich bars, 

 whose exquisite melody seems just in keeping with the 

 sylvan scene. Overhead, among the branches of the 

 beech, wood-warblers utter little gushes of song, and 

 the chiffchaff calls all day among the rocking tops. 



