36 BIRD- LAND ECHOES. 



see again the old spring-house and the moss-edged 

 flag-stones of the path that led to it. For years 

 there were chewinks about the spot all summer. 

 They were the delight of the old folks then, and 

 alas ! I am the old folks now. That double chirp, 

 c he-wink, that as a magician's wand bids time turn 

 back, restores me to those to whom I owe existence, 

 and rebuilds the play-ground of an infant, that is 

 a bird-note embodying all that I can realize in the 

 one word, music. It may fall harsh upon the com- 

 mon ear, it may not chord with the melody of the 

 thrush that is singing, it may click and clatter like 

 the broken string or the cracked trumpet, but it 

 recalls to me the long-dead past, it wipes away the 

 tears of bitter days, and is all that I ask of the one 

 word, music. 



As summer progresses and at noontide the woods 

 grow silent, it is cheering to the rambler to hear the 

 chewink as it scratches away among the dead leaves 

 and chatters constantly, like happy people whistling 

 at their work. It is a good, wholesome sound, this 

 double chirp, and to show that it means a great deal, 

 draw too closely to the birds' nests and see how they 

 can ring it in your ears. It is cruel to try to find 

 the nests, however. A mere shallow depression in 

 the ground and the eggs protectively colored, there 

 is far more chance that you will tread upon the poor 

 birds' treasures than detect their whereabouts with 

 your eyes. It is inexplicable to me that this cruelty 

 is so common among grown people. We cannot 

 expect much of children, especially when we con- 



