A HERMIT FOR THE DAY. 237 



in the case of bobolinks, that now are flitting 

 southward as yellow-brown reed-birds. With 

 our recent arrivals, as well as all- the -year- 

 round birds, it is now a season of fun and 

 feasting. Life has few cares for them for 

 months to come, and they appreciate the fact. 



It was the old story. I was seeing too 

 much. Had I not kept in the background, the 

 day would have teemed with adventure, but I 

 should have been less of a hermit. It was hard 

 to single out some one small bird among a 

 hundred. I turned from white-throats to king- 

 lets, from woodpeckers in the trees to che winks 

 on the ground, but everywhere there was no end 

 of bustle, if not confusion. Silent woods, indeed ! 

 No city could have shown a busier thoroughfare 

 than the interlocking branches of the trees. The 

 Stock Exchange was never noisier than when a 

 crowd of grakles came rushing from the outer 

 world and settled in a little cluster of white 

 pines. Here seemed the opportunity of a life- 

 time, yet I was puzzled to know what to do. To 

 merely catalogue the species as they came in 

 view would have been absurd ; to say that a 

 flock of this or that species was feeding in the 

 tree tops is equally uncalled for. Would there 

 never come some startling incident ? It came 

 that moment. A swift-winged hawk dashed 

 through the trees. I fancied I felt the fanning 



