310 UPLAND AND MEADOW. 



"How long will a wren live?" I was asked to-day. 

 I replied, " Ten years ;" for I know of one, or think so, 

 that summered a decade in the back-yard. My friend 

 mentioned a lame one that for nine consecutive years 

 nested in the same place. There is probably a good 

 deal of variation among small birds in this respect, but I 

 have failed to gather satisfactory data bearing upon this 

 point. I believe that the warblers, as a class, are 

 shorter lived than the finches, yet cannot say how or 

 when I became so impressed. But I do know of a little 

 chipping sparrow that certainly was ten years old when 

 it died, and probably older; and canaries are known to 

 have lived a much longer time. A partially albino 

 humming-bird nested in the same tree for seven sum- 

 mers, the albinism being my sure guide to the bird's 

 identity. 



I went nutting to-day for the first time this season, 

 choosing the finest of the trees in the pasture meadows 

 for my grounds, a stately shell-bark, towering up just 

 eighty-two feet, and as symmetrical as a scissor-trimmed 

 evergreen. The wind and the frost during the night 

 conspired to rob the tree of its fruit, and scattered over 

 the grass beneath were the white-shelled nuts. I stooped 

 and gathered until my back ached, and then, choosing a 

 seat from which I could see the tree to advantage, sat 

 down to contemplate it. I know every tree within 

 three miles of it this side of the river, and there is not 

 one that, for beauty, can compare with it. The droop- 

 ing elms, the enormous beeches, the commanding oaks, 

 all bid us pause, and it is no belittling worship to bow 

 down to them ; but I yield not in my original declara- 



