AUTUMN. 



" For him the hand 

 Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 

 With blooming gold and blushes like the morn ; 

 Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings, 

 And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 

 And loves unfelt attract him." 



Akenside. 



FTER August, when the song sum- 

 mer migrants have departed, and 

 our resident songsters have gone 

 into moult, the voices of the wood 

 are still, unless it be an odd bird 

 a bachelor who is singing all to 

 himself. The Robin and Wren are 

 still in the moult, and during July 

 and August are mute; nevertheless 

 there is much to interest the observing orni- 

 thologist. 



162 



