A SUMMER AT HOME. 203 



ures of forests during tlie carboniferous era. The 

 likeness to the tropics was largely strengthened when a 

 scarlet tanager came, and, resting in a tree just above 

 me, spread his wealth of color to the sun. Among our 

 birds, usually so sombre-tinted, he seems out of place ; 

 yet none would willingly forego his presence. The no- 

 less-strongly marked rose-breasted grosbeak also came 

 near, tarried a moment and was gone ; but no birds, 

 great or small, seem partial to the ferns themselves. 

 The warblers wander all about them, but seldom rest 

 among their waving fronds. Do they offer no foot- 

 hold, or are they actually offensive? In my limited ex- 

 perience in watching native birds I never associate 

 them with ferns. This is to me the more strange, when 

 I remember that the Maryland yellow-throat nests in 

 the very heart of the odoriferous skunk-cabbage. 



In the depths of the woods now there is an almost 

 monotonous wealth of green, and we hail a contrasting 

 color with pleasure. Even the trunks of many trees 

 Iiave a tinge of green, except the birches, which are often 

 purely white, and many decked with fluttering ribbons 

 of pale gray bark. Leaving my seat among the ferns 

 for a more open space near by, one 



"Wherein the warblers whistle many a tune 

 Hid in some leafy hollow, late in June," 



here I came upon an islet of color that was a veritable 

 treat. The topmost twigs of a post-oak sapling bore 

 glossy leaves of a deep maroon and scarlet. Constantly 

 the passing bees hovered over them, and, with a loud 

 buzz of chagrin, were off like a flash. It was mere color, 

 not bloom, and offered no sweets to them ; but an abun- 



