56 A Foretaste of Autumn 



not shut off the fog and rain when I close 

 my eyes and listen to the nuthatches over- 

 head. But other, birds pass by, birds that 

 have learned all the merits of my lifelong 

 haunts and keep me company throughout the 

 year. There in the near-by thicket is that 

 never-failing source of cheerfulness, the Caro- 

 lina wren. When the world wore its most 

 deserted, worn-out look, last winter, this 

 wren came every morning and sang a new 

 soul into the wasting skeletons of every 

 weed. The bare twigs trembled with the 

 joy of a new-found faith, that spring would 

 surely come again and clothe them anew with 

 bright green leaves. When early summer's 

 tuneful host fills the warm air with melody, 

 we are all too apt to forget the brave winter 

 birds ; but, happily, they do not forget them- 

 selves. It was so to-day. The wren found 

 the world too quiet for its fancy and awoke 

 the sleepy echoes. It sounded a challenge to 

 all drowsiness and banished noontide naps 

 from the hill-side. Like the odor of the 

 yarrow, it called up other days, another sea- 

 son with its wealth of fruits, and how the 

 nuts and apples of Odlober fell about me as 

 I listened to its wonderful song, the same 



