JTILT. 169 



The trutli is, July woods are never absolutely quiet. I 

 was astir recently at 3.40 A. m., and the festival of welcom- 

 ing the dawn had already commenced. The wood-peewees 

 were the first to sing ; then the robins ; these were fol- 

 lowed by house-wrens ; the song-thrush coming to time a 

 tuneful f om-th, and not until broad daylight did the dozen 

 or more songsters that frequent my yard join in the con- 

 cert. But when they did, the volume of sound was won- 

 derful ; and I fancied that it steadily increased until the 

 sun was fairly above the horizon, and then gradually died 

 away. By 5 A. M. the woods were comparatively silent, 

 and two hours later, still, to a marked degree. What then 

 is heard is an almost ceaseless chirping, and the business 

 of the day — ^feeding and warning young birds — ^has com- 

 menced. Sounds like insect-humming, that scarcely break 

 the silence, of course continue and increase in volume as 

 the noontide approaches ; but, however shrill these may 

 be, all other sounds are heard through them. Even the 

 harvest-flies — ^be they ever so noisy — do not drown the 

 plaintive song of the wood-pewee. 



With the birds busy, and the temperature ninety de- 

 grees in the shade, one should not expect a continual con- 

 cert, nor feel surprised if there happened an occasional 

 quiet hour. But I am giving now my own opinion, and 

 not that of certain birds ; for here in the beech is a pair 

 of nesting red-eyed vireos, and never the day too hot for 

 them. Thoreau has written : 



Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays 



The vireo rings the changes meet, 

 During these trivial summer days, 



Striving to lift our thoughts above the street. 



Here the days are too full to be trivial, and the lively 

 birds lift my thoughts to the branch whereon hangs their 

 pretty nest that sways in every passing breeze, yet never 



