A BIT OF FICTION FROM BIRDLA.ND. 



It was a radiant May day, so invitingly 

 fresh and sunshiny that I found it impos- 

 sible to stay indoors with any degree of 

 resignation. Far up the hillside sloping 

 southward was a favorite nook, and 

 thither I turned my springing steps, so 

 full of life and gladness that I could 

 hardly contain it all. 



Robins and bluebirds along my path 

 saluted me, sparrows carroled from shrub 

 and tree top their sweet, glad-spirited 

 chorus, swallows were skimming the 

 meadow with graceful wing, and bobo- 

 links sang everywhere, jubilant, hilar- 

 ious, in their "rollicking holiday spirit,"- 

 evidently intensely amused over some epi- 

 sode of recent date in the blithe bobolink 

 world. 



An old orchard of gnarled and tangled 

 trees — a veritable "antique" — ended my 

 ramble ; here I threw myself down upon 

 a mossy bank, turning to face the direc- 

 tion whence I had come. Down the val- 

 ley, with its willow and alder fringed 

 brook threading the meadow flats, I could' 

 look far away and over to the distant 

 hills, woods and tilled lands on the other 

 side. 



The old orchard stands like the leafy 

 porch to the sylvan halls behind it. Upon 

 either side is a wild unbroken tangle of 

 small growth — saplings of birch, poplar 

 and maple ; in front is a stubbly slope 

 cut off by a picturesque brook from the 

 meadows beyond ; upon the farther side 

 a deep forest of many years' standing. 

 Ah, the restfulness of a retreat like 

 this, shut in from the rustle, bustle and 

 petty cares of the world and the everyday 

 scramble for the bread and 1)Utter of mere 

 existence! And the witchery of an hour 

 like this — the whole earth steeped in sun- 

 shine, the air exhilarant and inspiring 

 with freshness and fragrance, the woodsy 

 odors of the tender new life but just 

 awakened from the torpidity of frost- 

 bound inanition, and the honeyed fra- 

 p^rance of the al)un(lant apple blossoms 

 inviting l)ird and l)cc and human flower 



lovers. 



Evidently the birds were in sympathy 

 with my mood, for there were literally 

 flocks of them all about me; and the air 

 was freighted with the enchanting mel- 

 ody of their rejoicing voices, Robert 

 O'Lincoln as usual making himself de- 

 lightfully prominent. I threw myself back 

 upon the lap of Mother Earth and ment- 

 ally rehearsed that characteristic bobo- 

 link poem : 



"A flock of merry singing birds were sporting 



in the grove, 

 Some were warbling cheerily and some were 



making love. 

 There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winter- 



seble, Conquedle, — , 

 A livelier set were never led by taber, pipe 



or fiddle." 



Presently the soporific influence of the 

 atmosphere and surroundings began to 

 take effect ; and, soothed by Nature's lul- 

 laby, I fell asleep with Wadolincon, Bob- 

 olincon, Conquedle, Winterseble, all in 

 a confused jumble in my brain. 



Immediately my companions began a 

 lively discussion about house-building. 

 At first I could not make out even the 

 subject of the conversation, for all were 

 talking together in such determined I- 

 will-have-my-say accents that they out- 

 babeled Babel with the confusion of 

 tongues and senseless racket. 



Soon, however, came a diversion, a 

 hawk flew screaming across the arena, 

 and, in the lull that followed, Mrs. Crow 

 seized the opportunity to mount the plat- 

 form of a tall spruce and call the meeting 

 to order, suggesting that as the subject 

 under consideration was of common in- 

 terest and importance, it would be more 

 profital~)ly discussed if each were allowed 

 to speak separately. 



I was grateful indeed for this timely 

 suggestion of the sable intruder, for, be- 

 ing myself especially interested in the 

 suliject under debate, I was anxious for 

 information, and knew that among so 

 divers oi)inions one might expect new 

 light upon it. 



12 



