16 ON THE COAST OF MAINE 



and, since they did not notice me, I had a 

 close look at them. They were streaked all 

 over on back and breast with fine streaks of 

 dark brown on a yellowish-drab ground, the 

 broad white bands on the wings proclaiming 

 their identity. 



Crossbills continued to sing till August 

 was nearly over. 



Into these halcyon days on that Island on 

 the Coast of Maine burst August, and the 

 " summer crowd." The two or three hotels, 

 empty heretofore and unobtrusive, blossomed 

 out with human life ; fancy " turnouts " 

 raised clouds of dust on my evening walk ; 

 baby-carriages with attendant white-capped 

 genii desecrated my favorite wood ; bicycle- 

 bells haunted the solitary foot-path; boys 

 swarmed on the sandpiper shore ; lonely by- 

 ways became common thoroughfares ; flowers 

 were ruthlessly destroyed; bird-voices were 

 lost amid the din with which we surround 

 ourselves. The woods seemed to shrink into 

 themselves. The birds retired to fastnesses 

 where human feet could not follow. Solitude 

 was banished, and everywhere were curious, 

 staring eyes. Man, the destroyer, had taken 



