100 IN THE DAYS OF AUDUBON 



The red hazes of the twilight sky became flecked with 

 wings. The herons and sea-feeding birds were returning. 

 Then the two began to study the motions and the vibra- 

 tions of descending wings. 



" They are the sounds," said the naturalist, " of the 

 birds coming home." Cheerful and love-lighting sounds 

 they were, like the returning footsteps of the father to the 

 fireside of his children. Nature has music that the common 

 ear does not hear. 



They slept under the pines. Above them passed the 

 unseen wings of the night-hawks. Afar hooted the owl. 



With Sunday morning came an uplift of wings — ascend- 

 ing wings. These upward wings bore the notes of triumph. 

 They rose as it were into the sun. They were not soft and 

 tender, they were loud and fierce. 



And what did the two foresters do on Sunday? Nature 

 sang to them, and a quail preached to them a sermon which 

 the son would long be likely to recall. 



They came upon the little quail and her brood of chicks, 

 whose fluffy, downy coverings were the color of brown 

 leaves. 



The terrified bird gave a note of warning to her chicks. 

 In a moment they had disappeared, all but one. 



Victor's eye caught the hiding-place of that one chick 

 and he put his hat over it. 



" Let us now go a little way off and listen," said 

 Audubon. 



