THE SURPLUS OF SUMMER 



IN the sun-speckled orchard there is the soft frou- 

 frou of wings, followed by the sound of a peck at 

 some moderately hard substance. From among the 

 leaves of a tall tree depends the rounded tail of a 

 blackbird, whose body is hidden in a breastplate of 

 green. Fallacious breastplate, for at the tiny smoke- 

 less crack of the rifle down comes the owner of the 

 tail. Almost every pear of this early tree, and of 

 other trees yet far from ripe, is scored or hollowed by 

 the beaks of these marauders. The little rifle can 

 make but small inroad against them, for at each 

 crack, tiny as it is, they grow more wary. It is 

 almost always a young bird that falls, the wily old 

 cock being particularly difficult to account for. He 

 cries warning to his offspring from afar, and if they 

 will not heed, more or less leaves them to their fate, 

 whereas the hen is liable to make fatal fuss over the 

 fall of one of her chicks. Plead mercy for her 

 those who have no orchards just now harried at 

 every moment of the day by hordes of blackbirds 

 completely sworn off from other food. 



In spring our blackbird is almost entirely ingrati- 

 ating. The cock sings with sad beauty from the 

 freshly bursting bough, and they are both immensely 

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