154 Clear Skies and Cloudy. 



bors ? I have never seen a spot that reached 

 to perfection, in my mind, but soon I found 

 that another spot excelled it. The Crosswicks 

 marshes have been called a birds' paradise, but 

 there are hundreds of equally paradisiacal areas 

 not far off, and only the shadow of man's care- 

 lessness prevents the sunshine of perfection 

 being realized. Too many cry out impatiently, 

 Who cares for a chippy-bird ? And the result 

 is the keeping back of the hand that could pre- 

 vent the birds' destruction. He who cries, Who 

 cares ? is the world's worst enemy. 



The bluebirds came back when I reached 

 the hickories, and sang as I gathered the scat- 

 tered nuts, a song for every nut I gathered, so 

 it seemed ; and the pitiless rain was quite for- 

 gotten. When the serious labor of the day was 

 over, the economic purpose of the outing ac- 

 complished, I turned again to the birds, but 

 they had gone. This is no unusual experience. 

 The song remains so distinctly that we do not 

 mark the withdrawal of the singer. When this 

 happens, we have reached the flood-tide of ap- 

 preciation, the high-water mark of our capa- 

 bility to realize what a bird's song really is. 



