100 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



wide army of the birds, whose bright eyes peer at 

 US from tree, thicket, and field, whose brilliant 

 feathers and sweet songs bring srtmmer with a 

 leap— the height of the grand symphony, of which 

 the vernal peeping of the frogs and the squirrels' 

 chatter were only the first notes of the prelude. 



Tantalus-like is the condition of the amateur 

 bird-lover, who, book in hand, vainly endeavours 

 to identify the countless beautiful forms which 

 appear ia such vast numbers, linger a few days 

 and then disappear, passing on to the northward, 

 but leaving behind a goodly assemblage which 

 spends the summer and gives abtmdant opportu- 

 nity for study during the succeeding months. In 

 May it is the migrants which we should watch, 

 and listen to, and "ogle" with our opera glasses. 

 Like many other evanescent things, those birds 

 which have made their winter home in Central 

 America — land yet beyond our travels — and 

 yrhich use our groves merely as half-way houses 

 on their journey to the land of their birth, the 

 balsams of Quebec, or the unknown :wastes of 

 Labrador, seem most precious, most yrorthy at 

 this time of our closest observation. 



More confusing — albeit the more delightful — 

 is a season when continued cold weather and chilly 

 raias hold back all but the hardiest birds, imtil — 

 like the dammed-up piles of logs trembling with 

 the spring freshets — the tropic winds carry all 

 before them, and all at once winter birds which 



