My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 223 



I have learned to take my winter outings as 

 the song-sparrow takes his, and we have 

 good times together, and then, beyond all 

 else, he still sings the same old song that I 

 heard when the world beyond the garden 

 walls was all a mystery. 



Lilacs, syringa, cocorus, a Missouri cur- 

 rant-bush, peonies, poppies, clove -pinks, 

 Johnny-jump-ups, a patch of ribbon-grass, 

 a gooseberry hedge, grape-arbor with blue- 

 bird-box at entrance, and plenty of song- 

 sparrows. Arrange them as you choose, 

 that makes little difference, but of such ma- 

 terial was formed the old-fashioned garden, 

 and there never has been any improvement 

 upon it. Evolution exhausted itself in that 

 direction in colonial times. I only knew 

 Quakers in my earliest days, but were these 

 folk not over-fanciful in declaring that the 

 bird sang tbee, tbee, tbee, tbee tbee, tbee, 

 tbou, tbou? I have heard other and more 

 descriptive words used, but it is folly to 

 attempt an imitation of song by phrases. 

 The quail says Bob White, and all the rest 

 of bird utterances are matters only of their 

 own language. 



Every spot, however limited, has its own 



