CHAPTER X. 



A SXJMMER AT HOME 



" And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 

 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

 And over it softly her warm ear lays." 



What is, indeed? but such perfect days do come, 

 when we have the rose-breasted grosbeak to sing to us. 

 The month, in '84, came in clear and warm, and with 

 grosbeaks in abundance. At sunrise they joined in the 

 day's opening chorus; at noon they sang with unabated 

 zeal, as if to cheer the weak ones that complain of noon- 

 tide heat; at sunset, and through the gloaming, they 

 are the leaders of the evening concert. 



It is held by many that the wood-thrush is the finer 

 songster, but have those that think this heard these 

 birds as they sang to-day, when the hillside oaks and 

 mighty beeches were aglow with the last rays of the 

 setting sun, and happily no heartless robin interrupted? 

 I trow not. 



I love the thrush — no one can be more appreciative 

 of it — but I worship the grosbeak. 



The weather was all that could be wished, and, 

 armed only with so peaceful a weapon as a spade, my 

 companion and myself took a leisurely stroll over my 

 neighbor's meadows, to search for such crayfish as bur- 



