of bushes yonder come the rippling cadences 

 of a happy songster. "Hello, chewink/' I 

 can exclaim, for I recognize my little friend's 

 voice and accept. I know just how he sits on 

 that topmost swaying bough and how his little 

 throat is swelling as the gladsome notes pour 

 out on the pleasant air. I know how his mate 

 looks, where their nest is, how their babies 

 are fed and nurtured, when to expect his first 



cheery notes in the spring, when to hear him 

 say his autumnal good-bye. And I have learn- 

 ed it all from behind the shelter of the thicket 

 screen while my companion was snoring in 

 his hammock after too copious a Sunday din- 

 ner. He does not know my feathered friend. 

 To him he is "only a sparrow or something." 

 He is weary of the life that is a deadening 

 round of toil unrelieved by stimulating change. 

 But here are sufficient problems presented by 

 this one birdling to keep one's mind from wear- 

 isome monotony. Why is he so brilliantly col- 

 ored, his mate dressed in somber tones? Why 

 are their eggs speckled brown on a white 

 ground while robin over yonder lays eggs of 

 blue? Where does he go in the winter, how 

 know his way and what led him to undertake, 

 he and all his kind, these yearly pilgrimages? 

 I recognize the metallic blue of that swift- 

 flying insect that is hurtling over the low 

 bushes and grass nearby where we are sitting. 

 ]\Iy companion does not deign to notice him 

 unless he comes too close, when he dodges to 

 escape an ugly hornet. I know what he is 

 hunting for there and when he rises bye- 

 and-bye in widening circles, I catch sight of 

 the spider held close below his body. I can 



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