Windy Bush. 



1 F it be true that the birds which haunt the bab- 

 bling brooks sing only of rippling waters, echo 

 the bell-like trickling of tiny streams, and trill the 

 murmuring of the fretted tide, then the wood- 

 peewee has caught the languor of the hot high 

 noon, and his note, when it fills the woods, even 

 before the sun climbs the distant hills, is an 

 evidence of what the day will be. For years I 

 have held the long-drawn notes of this fly-catcher 

 to be so far prophetic. To-day, save the red-eye, 

 that, too, braves the noontide, all other birds were 

 silent before the dew had gone from the grass, and 

 the doleful peewee was our perpetual reminder of 

 what was coming. Its song was so languid, so 

 full of longing, that the breeze seemed to lose its 

 freshness, as though commanded to be sad and 



lo 109 



