THE PASSING OF THE FLOCKS 217 



how all this pales before the accomplishment of a 

 young brush turkey or moundbuilder of the antip- 

 odes. Hatched six or eight feet under ground, 

 merely by the heat of decaying vegetation, no 

 fond parents minister to his wants. Not only 

 must he escape from the shell in the pressure 

 and darkness of his underground prison (how we 

 cannot tell), but he is then compelled to dig 

 through six feet of leaves and mould before he 

 reaches the sunlight. He finds himself well feath- 

 ered, and at once spreads his small but perfect 

 wings and goes humming off to seek his living 

 alone and unattended. 



It is September — the month of restlessness for 

 the birds. Weeks ago the first migrants started 

 on their southward journey, the more delicate 

 insect-eaters going first, before the goldfinches 

 and other late nesters had half finished house- 

 keeping. The northern warblers drift past us 

 southward — the magnolia, blackburnian, Cana- 

 dian fly-catching, and others, bringing memories 

 of spruce and balsam to those of us who have 

 lived with them in the forests of the north. 



"It's getting too cold for the little fellows,' ' 

 says the wiseacre, who sees you watching the 

 smaller birds as they pass southward. Is it, 

 though? What of the tiny winter wren which 

 spends the zero weather with us? His coat is 

 no warmer than those birds which have gone to 

 the far tropics. And what of the flocks of birds 



