296 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



ing the little carpenters, weavers, masons, and 

 basket-makers who hang our groves and decorate 

 our shrubbery with their skill. When on our win- 

 ter \s walk we see a distorted, wind-torn, grass cup, 

 think of the quartet of beautiful little creatures, 

 now flying beneath some tropical sun, which owe 

 their lives to the nest, and which, if they are 

 spared, will surely return to the vicinity next 

 summer. 



That time of year thou may'st in me behold, 

 When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 

 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, — ■ 

 Bare, ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 



Shakespeare. 



