PARADISE OF BIRDS. 



TT is late in the month of August. The hay harvest 

 of this half-hearted summer, long delayed and 

 sadly marred by rain, is over at length. The sun- 

 browned mowers who, with measured steps, kept time 

 knee-deep in the scented grass, swing their scythes no 

 more. The last waggon, piled high with its fragrant 

 load, rumbling on broad wheels down the narrow lane, 

 has been cheered into the stackyard. 



The fields are bare. Where but a short month ago 

 was spread a living carpet, sweet scented, many hued, 

 stirred by murmuring bees and the bright wings of 

 roving butterflies, is now a smooth monotony of green. 



It is the close of a pleasant chapter in the history 

 of the year. 



And now upon the short sward the birds descend ; 

 not as of late, singly or in twos and threes, but in 

 troops whose numbers swell from day to day with 

 new recruits. 



Some of these gathering flocks the clouds of 



