A JUNE DAY CHAT 



might belong in that circle. So I brought him 

 back to the grove, and there, clinging to a low 

 bough of the cedar in question, were two other 

 young orioles; little yellow-breasted, greenish- 

 backed, bright-eyed creatures exact counter- 

 parts of the downy ball I had in my hand, and 

 all three were the picture of their mother, who, 

 with the father, was hovering anxiously around 

 the nest site. Now and then the parents flew 

 down to the babies and coaxed them to mount. 

 I placed the foundling on a branch beside the 

 other wrecked nestlings, and then, from a reas- 

 suring distance, I watched the old birds as they 

 carefully led the little ones to a higher, safer 

 perching-place ; and when all was quiet I with- 

 drew from the scene. 



There were tragedies that day how many we 

 cannot say and bird-songs were hushed while 

 the wild winds raged and the rain fell in torrents. 

 What an angry face nature can wear even in 

 June! But no sooner was there a little diminu- 

 tion of the fury, a slight promise of better things 

 on the way, than the glad wood voices rang out 

 in a grateful Te Deum and life was thankfully 

 taken up in whatever shape the storm had left it. 



I picked up many a broken egg after the tem- 



