THE DEAD LEAVES FALL 
Although the half-denuded woods are dampened 
with a drilling 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 
