94 In Touch with Nature. 



cottage garden of nigh a century ago? Then 

 the morning songs of merry birds fell not upon 

 deaf ears here, where the farmer lived far from the 

 town, and his fields on every side were weighted 

 with the award of toil. But we must bow to the 

 inevitable. The growing town is inexorable, and 

 to mourn a dismantled farm is mawMsh sentimen- 

 tality. Another May-day will be celebrated here, 

 not by the songs of birds, but by the grating of 

 saws and thud of the hammer. New habitations 

 will arise upon the ruins of the old, and still 

 longer become the town-dweller's tramp ere he 

 reaches the open country. The naturalist's last 

 chance at this spot will then be when the earth is 

 upturned and a cellar dug ; when, perchance, relics 

 of the Indians, or bones of the animals the dusky 

 hunters slew, will hold him for the day ; or some 

 local historian may air his knowledge over the 

 belongings of other days, — a rusty ploughshare or a 

 well-worn coin. As I now stand listening to the 

 songs of birds, — their farewell concert it may be, — 

 I fancy that I see a troop of graybeards hobbling 

 hither to watch the building of a new house, and, 

 gathering about some trivial trace of other days, 



