SVLVAN MINSTRELS. 



*~~PHE woodland ways, still glorious in their rich 

 October dress, are yet sorrowful in their silence. 

 Amid all the splendour of the crimson and the gold 

 we miss the music of the birds. We miss the mellow 

 song of the blackcap, the hasty symphony of the 

 white-throat, the gentle cadence of the willow-wren, 

 and the voice of many a sweet songster beside. 



It is true that there is no lack of life among the 

 trees. Here, a brown squirrel is racing over the 

 branches; or, seated on some level bough, with his 

 brush curled over his back, scatters the chips of fir- 

 cones on the ground beneath him ; or, peering from 

 behind the stem, watches with bright black eyes the 

 advance of the intruder. There, a merry party of long- 

 tailed titmice chase each other from tree to tree across 

 the wood. Little troops of gold-crests, clustering about 

 the pine-tops, raise their tiny voices rejoicing in the 

 sun. Now, the soft call-note of a bullfinch hardly 

 breaks the stillness ; now, the whole wood is ringing 



