A DAY IN JUNE 143 



from South America, I suppose, is lisping 

 softly to himself. A myrtle warbler, less 

 recently come, and from a less distance, has 

 taken possession of a dead treetop, hardly 

 higher than a man's head, from which he 

 makes an occasional sally after a passing 

 insect. Between whiles he sings. Once I 

 heard a snowbird, as I thought ; but it was 

 only the myrtle warbler when I came to 

 look. An oven-bird shoots into the air out 

 of the forest below for a burst of aerial 

 afternoon music. I heard the preluding 

 strain, and, glancing up, caught him at 

 once, the sunlight happening to strike him 

 perfectly. All the morning he has been 

 speaking prose ; now he is a poet ; a division 

 of the day from which the rest of us might 

 take a lesson. But for his afternoon role 

 he needs a name. " Oven-bird " goes some- 

 what heavily in a lyric : 



" Hark ! hark ! the oven-bird at heaven's gate sings " 



you would hardly recognize that for Shake- 

 speare. 



As I shift my position, trying one after 

 another of the seats which the rocks offer 



