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THE DEAD LEAVES FALL 



Although the half-denuded woods are dampened 

 with a drizzling autumn rain, and the mingled yellows, 

 browns, and reds of the discarded leaves are blending 

 in a soft, damp carpet of neutral shade, it is a happy 

 thing to be abroad, where the pilgrims from the 

 northern woods loiter a moment in their long migra- 

 tion. The White-throat is making his way southward 

 and seems quite discouraged at the state of the 

 weather. But the Nuthatches, creeping up and down 

 the rough Oak trees, are as bright and energetic as in 

 summer. Birds are privileged of nature. They can 

 wear the most brilliant, rich, and glowing colours 

 without being vulgar, and can give way to ceaseless 

 industry without being offensive. Where the dry side 

 of a comfortable Oak makes an inviting shelter it is 

 pleasant to lean and watch the silent activity of the 

 little fellows as they search in the rough depressions 

 and probe for insects with their long bills. Against 

 the grey bark on the dry side of a Beech the Nuthatch 

 becomes almost invisible. But he is too active to be 

 hid, and his continuous motion stirs the atmosphere 

 of life in the silent dampness of the dripping woods. 

 He hops around to the wet side of the Beech, showing 



