48 PASTORAL DAYS. 



The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of fire 

 among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively about 

 you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden tree-top 

 overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of quail 

 cuddling among the dry leaves ; but, even though you should, you might 

 pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the 

 edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded 

 knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock 

 is set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air 

 a luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes 

 of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane's-bill ; and the poison-ivy, 

 creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has screened its hairy 

 trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The mountain-laurel, with its 

 deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers above that rocky crag ; and 

 in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea is crowned with a profusion 

 of pink blossoms. 



Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull 

 white crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed 

 deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their 

 shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with nod- 

 ding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies disgrace 

 their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we hear 

 on every side the " z-zip, z-zip," amidst the din of a thousand crickets and 

 sinsdno; locusts amon^ the reeds and rushes. The meadows roll and 

 swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white -speckled foam upon their 

 crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of crimson 

 clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from the tall 

 grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a half -hour's song 

 into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air with his trembling 

 wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain his breath. A coy 

 meadow -lark shows his yellow -breast and crescent above the windrow 

 yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes, and see the 

 mowers cut their circling swath. 



Mowing ! Why, how is this ? This surely is not Spring. But even 

 thus the Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft 

 transition, and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown 

 hay breathes its perfumed whisper, " Behold, the Spring has fled !" 



