1 86 Bird -Lore 



With The Comedy of the Cherry Trees closes the complete life of the nest- 

 ing-season prolonged by the Cedar-birds, Goldfinches and odd individuals 

 until the silent month of molting, August. 



Say goodbye to some of the gaily-robed singers, for when they emerge 

 in late summer or early autumn, their individuality of life and plumage will 

 be gone. It will be the life of the flock, not the pair, that will pass before you. 

 The Orioles that stab the trumpet flowers for their honey, will be dull of coat — 

 male blended with female — and the Scarlet Tanager who called so bravely 

 from the oak wood will come out minus his glowing feathers. The Swallows 

 will have left their bank- holes to flock across the marsh meadows, like low-lying 

 smoke that ever and anon settles on the heavy- fruited bay bushes; and out 

 on the lawn and in the hay meadows, the Crackles will walk boldly, and, when 

 at the signal of the leader they fly off, follow, to make sure that they are not 

 investigating those wonderful heads of sweet corn that you are thinking to 

 exhibit at the County Fair. 



Ah well! The laborer is worthy of his hire, only, in the case of Crackles 

 and Starlings, we protectionists will soon have to protect ourselves, and be 

 given a little leeway as to the workers we are forced to employ and the exact 

 amount of wages we are required to pay. 



Meanwhile, why worry? Least of all has this a place in the garden shelter 

 of a midsummer noon. The bell sounds and I go indoors; then presently a 

 little melody comes from beside the house, a song associated with cool grass 

 and evening, not with a burning midday. 



"One syllable, clear and soft 

 As a raindrop's silvery patter." 



It is my Field Sparrow singing to pay for his dinner of chickfeed, paying 

 before he eats! How can I ever so pay for the meal spread before me in the 

 cool shadows of the room. 



Hark! Of a sudden there is a commotion in the copse by the garden, 

 birds calling for help in every key. Has the Screech Owl come over from the 

 willow stump to stir up the Jays? 



I go out, shading my eyes from the glare with one hand, while the birds 

 circle about my head. There on the wall crouches our very worst cat .enemy, 

 a great, lean, brindled gray, that comes and goes like a shadow at dawn and 

 twilight, always blending in the underbrush before one can take aim. We 

 got the calico cat with the bull head last week, and since then the gray has 

 taken the young from three nests, convicting gray fur telling the tale. Now for 

 the first time she does not see us through gazing into the cherry tree, the 

 light is perfect, but — we have not a single cartridge left! 



