In Deep, Dark Woods. 255 



the birds about us. I have seen many a cardi- 

 nal, tanager, and rose-breasted grosbeak that 

 looked black as night in the open fields, but 

 there is no mistaking their colors when flitting 

 across our path here in the woods. Let a car- 

 dinal red-bird perch on a low branch, in full 

 view, and red he will appear, as he proves to 

 your delighted ear his claim to past master in 

 the art of whistling. The brown and white of 

 the melancholy thrush, even of the little tree- 

 creeper, can be traced feather by feather, and 

 the passing warblers, spotted and streaked like 

 the harlequins, show themselves in their true 

 colors when in the woods. There is no glare 

 of the sun's direct light to bewilder you, to 

 blind you for the moment, when you could best 

 have seen the restless bird. So accurately ad- 

 justed are your senses to their surroundings 

 that life and the world take on a new meaning. 

 The song of a bird is so delightful that it might 

 seem at first thought that the conditions under 

 which it is heard were quite immaterial. Sitting 

 on a porch, in an easy-chair, with the purple 

 light of the dying day making fairy-land alike 

 of all the outlook, the matchless strains of the 



