IN BIRD LAND. 



WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 



LOOKING out of my study window one fair 

 spring morning, I noticed a friend — a pro- 

 fessional man — walking along the street, evidently 

 taking his " constitutional." Having reached the end 

 of the brick pavement, he paused, glanced around 

 a moment undecidedly, and then, instead of walk- 

 ing out into the beckoning fields and woods, turned 

 down another street which led into a thickly popu- 

 lated part of the city. Surely, I mused, we are not 

 all cast in the same mould. While he carefully 

 avoided going beyond the suburbs and the beaten 

 paths, as if afraid he might soil his polished shoes, 

 I should have plunged boldly into the country, 

 " across lots," to find some sequestered nook or 

 grass-grown by-way, " far from human neighbor- 

 hood," to hold undisturbed converse with Nature. 

 My friend's conduct, however, did not put me in 

 a critical mood, but rather stirred some grateful 

 reflections on the wise adaptation of all things in 



