EN ROUTE 



home where dear human friends once dwelt. The 

 wood-thrushes have gone. In spite of scarcity of 

 provisions resulting from the autumn cold, they 

 lingered with us until two days ago. I fancy 

 that they bade adieu with real regret to the spot 

 where they have known such happy sheltered 

 days. Often toward dusk, as we sat quietly on 

 our veranda listening to the twilight voices, there 

 would come to us from this woodland corner all 

 the bed-time chatter of the little wood-thrushes 

 as they advanced from branch to branch. They 

 evidently had the sociable idea of drawing near 

 our neighborhood, and many a time the bright 

 eyes would peep at us from out the leafy cover- 

 lets, as if with a real interest in us and an affec- 

 tionate desire for our companionship. Even when 

 we strolled under the branches where the soft, 

 speckled breasts were visible the trusting little 

 creatures manifested no alarm. Surely in their 

 happy southern haunts they do not lose the re- 

 membrance of this waiting forest nook. 



I miss the twilight twitter of the chimney- 

 swifts, and it is with a feeling of genuine loneli- 

 ness that I note the almost universal falling-off, 

 even among the late-stayers' ranks. The first 

 robin flight has left us, yet hosts of the dear red- 



[57] 



