32 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



his downfall and quiet had been partially restored, a 

 half-fledged member of the bereaved household came 

 out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon a decayed 

 branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt, in celebration of 

 the victory. 



Till the middle of July there is a general equilibrium ; 

 the tide stands poised ; the holiday-spirit is unabated. 

 But as the harvest ripens beneath the long, hot days, 

 the melody gradually ceases. The young are out of the 

 nest and must be cared for, and the moulting season is 

 at hand. After the cricket has commenced to drone 

 his monotonous refrain beneath your window, you will 

 not, till another season, hear the wood-thrush in all his 

 matchless eloquence. The bobolink has become care- 

 worn and fretful, and blurts out snatches of his song 

 between his scolding and upbraiding, as you approach 

 the vicinity of his nest, oscillating between anxiety for 

 his brood and solicitude for his musical reputation. 

 Some of the sparrows still sing, and occasionally across 

 the hot fields, from a tall tree in the edge of the forest, 

 comes the rich note of the scarlet tanager. This trop- 

 ical-colored bird loves the hottest weather, and I hear 

 him even in dog-days. 



The remainder of the summer is the carnival of the 

 swallows and fly-catchers. Flies and insects, to any 

 amount, are to be had for the catching ; and the oppor- 

 tunity is well improved. See that sombre, ashen-col- 

 ored pewee on yonder branch. A true sportsman he, 

 who never takes his game at rest, but always on the 



