A WORLD FULL OF BABIES. 263 



times on the way we paused, lured by an ec- 

 static note, but every one too far off to be com- 

 pletely heard. 



In our quiet walk back through the dark 

 woods I accepted my evident fate, that I was 

 not to be blessed with hermit music this season ; 

 but I made a private resolve to find next year a 

 " hermit neighborhood," where birds should be 

 warranted to sing, if I had to take a tent and 

 camp out in a swamp. 



June passed away in delightful bird -study, 

 and July followed quickly. Nests and songs in 

 plenty rewarded our search. Every day had 

 been full. Nothing had been wanting to fill our 

 cup of content, except the longed-for song of the 

 hermit; and I had been so absorbed I had al- 

 most ceased to regret it. 



With the last days of July everything was 

 changed about us. The world was full of bird 

 babies. Infant voices rang out from every 

 tangle; flutters of baby wings stirred every 

 bush; the woods echoed to anxious "pips," and 

 "smacks, "and "quits," of uneasy parents work- 

 ing for dear life. We had been so occupied 

 with our study of these charming youngsters, 

 that we bethought ourselves, only as one after 

 another strange warbler appeared upon the scene, 

 that migrating time had arrived, the wonderful 

 procession to the summer-land had begun. 



