RESTING TIME OF THE BIRDS 



But that was a week or ten days ago. 

 Yesterday I heard some bird cooing a 

 little song to himself out in the arbor- 

 vitse trees at the foot of the garden, and 

 slipping quietly up found that it was the 

 catbird again. Fie was quite sleek in his 

 new coat, and he was practising his song 

 in a delightful undertone, as if to be sure 

 that he should not forget it altogether. 



In four or five weeks more he will 

 begin to flip saucily across the miles of 

 country that separate him from his win- 

 ter home in Southern Florida, or perhaps 

 farther yet in some stretch of primeval 

 forest that I myself have seen and loved 

 in the heart of Santo Domingo. He will 

 not sing his song there, high on some 

 giant ceiba or swinging on the plume 

 of some royal palm. He may not sing 

 it again here on the tip of the tallest 

 white lilac bush, but I know that, there 

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