194 UPLAND AND MEADOW. 



congregate, and one by one take their places in the trees. 

 The thrushes on the lower branches open the concert, 

 and all goes well, unless too many shrilly chirping robins 

 interrupt by their incessant clatter. Think of an opera 

 performed in a cotton-mill, and you have the songs at 

 sunset, as they sometimes are, with this robin accompani- 

 ment. Such a time is a sufficient answer to the distorted 

 notion that birds sing simply to please mankind. I have 

 heard the statement made in perfect sincerity, even in 

 these enlightened days. I have often thought how it 

 must fret a tuneful thrush to be interrupted by a robin 

 or blue-jay. Indeed, I am positive that they cease to 

 sing from such a cause. 



June S closed a week of perfect summer weather. 

 An eager botanist rambled with me to Poaetquissings, 

 and along its shady shores for half their length. His 

 hands were only empty that he might gather fresh flowers, 

 at every turn in our path. Purple and yellow oxalis, 

 and star grass, slim, upright stems topped with yellow- 

 centred bloom, made his first bouquet ; and, as we left 

 the creek-side, a handful of forget-me-nots were the fit- 

 ting memento he carried home. 



Stayed by a passing shower, we took shelter under the 

 dense foliage of thick-set birches, and my friend grew 

 eloquent as, from our leaf-house, he gazed wistfully at 

 the dense clusters of arum on the shore, of pontederia 

 in the shallows, of pond-lilies in bloom, and delicate 

 Nuphar pumilum, whose leaves never reach beyond the 

 water's surface, but whose golden, globular bloom peeps 

 shyly above it. 



