CHAPTER XVII. 



THE FIRST DAYS OF JUNE. 



WHAT greater charm has the forest than its extensive va- 

 riety of ferns! What a highly-wrought thing of beauty 

 is the pattern of each frond ! In that immense vegetation 

 period in geological history called the coal-age, when no 

 flower breathed its fragrance on the landscape, the immense 

 numbers of magnificent ferns, which have left their imprint 

 in the rocks, assure us, nevertheless, that the world was very 

 beautiful. Of those continents of flowerless plants my 

 imagination is striving to form some conception as I wade 

 through the many varieties of ferns which adorn a low open 

 wood north of the Ridge — a place where I frequently go, 

 these first days of June, in search of birds' nests. 



THE GOLDEN-WINGED WARBLER. 



In the center of this grand fernery, the forest is a sort of 

 open grove, letting in the sun with but little obstruction, 

 and thus forming a very paradise for the study of oology. 

 Most birds of the forest shun the gloom and dampness of 

 its more shadowy parts, when locating their nests, and seek 

 out the more or less open spaces, sheltered from the wind 

 and warmed by the sun. Hence I lay me down here, in a 

 fragrant bed of ferns, to listen and observe. On this bright, 

 sunny morning, everything is astir. I am in the midst of a 

 grand concert, which few performances of the human voice, 



