MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



interminable path, in preference to the broad, 

 well-kept avenue which unfolds its entire length 

 before us as we stand under the sentinel pines at 

 the entrance to the grove. For unless darkness 

 encompasses the winding way, or snow-drifts 

 block its passage, I seldom lose an opportunity of 

 wandering through it. 



You will find the paths feather-strewn and the 

 grove comparatively silent to-day, for this is the 

 height of the trying moulting season, and few of 

 our little friends have the courage to sing while 

 the change of raiment is being made. Now and 

 then you may hear the brave song-sparrow's in- 

 spiring hymn, or the happy little indigo bunting's 

 rhapsody; and the joyous goldfinch carols mer- 

 rily, and the pewee's plaint has lost none of its 

 early summer sweetness. Occasionally the crude, 

 uncertain notes of a beginner fall upon your ear, 

 and again you hear an attempt pathetically sug- 

 gestive of a passe tenor or a worn-out baritone, 

 but with these exceptions the great bird orchestra 

 is silent, and the little feathered friends keep 

 themselves in hiding much of the time. 



Far beyond, where this winding path meets 

 the old-fashioned garden, the music of the foun- 

 tain may be heard ; and, in its near neighborhood, 



