SCARLET TANAGER. 147 



the leaves of " Paradise " burn with the tints of 

 sunset. 



On the desolate margin of " Purgatory " you 

 rarely see a human face, unless that of some poor 

 soul-tormented lunatic who has strayed from the 

 asylum on the hill. But in " Paradise " you meet 

 groups of merry children, college girls gathering 

 wild flowers, and all the town in gala-day attire. 



This is the haunt of the birds, and here the 

 Smith Audubon Society has gathered about Mr. 

 Burroughs, listening to his interpretation of the 

 chippering of the swifts that circle far overhead ; 

 hearkening with him to the yellow hammer's cries, 

 and watching the happy goldfinches, busy in the 

 button-wood tops. Here each level has its bird 

 from the leaves, the oven-bird sends up his cres- 

 cendo ; from among the bushes comes the quarry- 

 ing note of the white-throats ; low on the boughs 

 of the trees the thrushes sit wrapt in meditation ; 

 in the top of a sapling the indigo-bird sings of 

 the white violets beneath him ; from the hemlocks 

 and pines come the screams of the blue jays; 

 over the river the kingfisher flies, sounding his 

 alarm on the wing ; and high overhead the soar- 

 ing hawk circles in silence. 



One spring morning when we were in one of 

 the most beautiful spots of all Paradise, where a 

 tiny rill spreads out over the sand, bathing the 

 roots of the bright green grass and the blue for- 

 get-me-nots, a true bird of Paradise came flying 



