A DAY IN JUNE 8i 



have a double portion of the delights of existence. 

 The song of the Veery, the churning, dashing, burst- 

 ing melody that reveals a spontaneous gladness, is 

 still heard among the leafy shades. Much has been 

 said and written of the Veery's song, but only to 

 reveal the poverty of words in its description. It is a 

 part of the gladness of nature, to be absorbed and 

 enjoyed in its own spirit. Other songsters, with their 

 own peculiar charms, are still carrying the spirit of 

 spring on into summer. Perhaps that is the mission 

 of all songsters. The Yellow Warbler still sings as 

 happily as in the days of his courtship, and his note 

 has a distinctness lent by the silence of so many of 

 his feathered relatives. The Oven Bird's penetrating 

 repetitions come along under the branches, and the 

 Brown Thrasher still sings to the sun from a lofty 

 perch. There is just enough melody through the 

 shady branches to make their quietness more 

 somnolent. 



A glimpse of yellow and white shows where a 

 Flicker curves and undulates through the open spaces 

 to the broken shaft of an old, dead Willow. The 

 brown-grey back, almost invisible against the bark, 

 disappears, and after a long, patient wait, with no 

 sign of the alert head on the other side, the temptation 

 becomes irresistible. There is a nest. Just below the 

 broken limb a hole has been picked in the decaying 

 wood, but it is a false one. One would like to think it 



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