Prom Pillar to Post 



The crow wanders from the leafy wilderness 

 of the tree-tops, circling in mid-air as if without 

 a purpose, and only hurries away when vicious- 

 ly attacked by a king bird. The redwings, that 

 have recently gathered, come from many an 

 upland swamp, leisurely seeking the tide- 

 washed marsh, and exert themselves nO' more 

 than feeding calls for. • The uncertain robins 

 still question whether it is time to give up their 

 summer habits, but finally unite their forces, 

 and, as an ill-formed troop, go bungling along 

 over hill and dale. The bobolink of springtide 

 days is here again, but, in the sober guise of a 

 reed bird, utters only a single note, not so much 

 an eloquent lament on the passing of summer 

 as it is a voicing of August's meditative days. 

 I know it, above many another, as a bird-note 

 that leads to retrospection on my part; sober, 

 sad retrospection formerly, but not so now. I 

 no longer wish that summer lasted through all 

 the months. I follow now the example set by 

 the blue birds that throng the air. Whatever 

 the time of year theirs is a hopeful song. A 

 change continuous from grave to gay, but no 

 such dark foreboding as from life to death. 

 August now, and nearing the end of summer, 



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