A SUMMER VOYAGE 



tural note, now here, now there, may be heard 

 almost any summer night, in any part of the coun- 

 try, and occasionally his better known cuckoo call. 

 He is a great recluse by day, but seems to wander 

 abroad freely by night. 



The birds do indeed begin with the day. The 

 farmer who is in the field at work while he can yet 

 see stars catches their first matin hymns. In the 

 longest June days the robin strikes up about half- 

 past three o'clock, and is quickly followed by the 

 song sparrow, the oriole, the catbird, the wren, the 

 wood thrush, and all the rest of the tuneful choir. 

 Along the Potomac I have heard the Virginia car- 

 dinal whistle so loudly and persistently in the tree- 

 tops above, that sleeping after four o'clock was out 

 of the question. Just before the sun is up, there 

 is a marked lull, during which, I imagine, the birds 

 are at breakfast. While building their nest, it is 

 very early in the morning that they put in their big 

 strokes ; the back of their day's work is broken 

 before you have begun yours. 



A lady once asked me if there was any individ- 

 uality among the birds, or if those of the same kind 

 were as near alike as two peas. I was obliged to 

 answer that to the eye those of the same species 

 were as near alike as two peas, but that in their 

 songs there were often marks of originality. Caged 

 or domesticated birds develop notes and traits of 

 their own, and among the more familiar orchard and 

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