96 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



desolation before its clattering knives. 

 My yellow loosestrife, tansy, St. John's- 

 wort, and steeple-bush fell with the rest, 

 and the kingbird family seemed to miss 

 its waving surface as much as I did. No 

 more could they hover over it, catching 

 an unlucky grasshopper or moth, but had 

 to alight among the stubble to scare them 

 up, when a wild chase ensued. No more 

 could tiger swallow-tail or the little cab- 

 bage butterflies float over its fragrant 

 grasses. The beauty of my meadow gone, 

 my three families having almost deserted 

 it, I turned my attention to other quarters, 

 but the sweet voice of the little song spar- 

 row was still to be heard pouring out his 

 soul from the old apple-tree's crest. 



