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We were soon on our happy way to a bridge beloved of the phoebes, and 
for a long time marked “unsafe,” although a little pile of new lumber 
showed that someone was thinking of rendering this sign void, and the spot 
consequently less interesting. 
We planned to spend the time in lovely woods, near stream and marsh, 
until the vesper hour. There were late violets; blue phlox, prettily purple- 
pink, even in dying; wonderful white trilliums up the trail; columbine, a 
favorite with our humming birds not yet come — and always the blue of 
lupine. 
Not far from us in the mud of the brook edge was a solitary sandpiper, 
much bespeckled, with white or grayish back and an extremely pretty barred 
tail of black and white. He was rapidly picking up many tid-bits which 
no doubt compensated somewhat for his lonely life. 
Spotted sandpipers, too, came to look at us. In order to identify these 
little birds—a trifle over seven inches-—it was not necessary to note the 
black line through the eye, and black spots on white breast; their musical 
peet-weet, and incessant “teetering” introduced them at once as the tip-up 
or teeter snipe. 
A phoebe was apparently furious that we should sit comfortably on the 
bridge; no doubt we were on the roof of her home. 
Oven-birds were wee-cheeing their loud, persistant accelerando from the 
woods; and we had the pleasure of seeing another friend given to solitary 
habits, — the little green heron. A beauty he is, of some seventeen inches, 
shiny greenish crown, green back, and splendid red-chestnut neck. He was 
sitting on a log, watching, no doubt, for a meal of frog’s legs, of which he 
is very fond. In a moment he saw us and flew off, uttering his single sharp 
squawk. We lost sight of him, but he is so clever in merging himself in his 
surrounding'’s, no doubt he had his eye on us all the time. 
It was almost time for four o’clock vespers, so we wended our way to a 
venerable apple orchard, where we had a life interest in a log-backed pew. 
From it we could see an unusually lovely crab apple tree, a trifle late in 
blooming. A fairy had touched each individual bud, and under the influence 
of the magic wand each had turned a pretty pink face up to the sun. 
As we seated ourselves on grassy cushions, the jays commenced to ring 
bells for service, — a trifle cracked, but in the open air we did not find the 
sound disagreeable. Wood thrushes from a little distance fluted “Come to 
pray, come to sing,’”’ and they came, singly, in pairs, in groups. 
There was a program, a bit informal but very beautiful. 
Among the soloists the robins furnished the staccato music, the rose- 
breasted grosbeak, the rich legato; more flutes, this time by meadow larks. 
A catbird gave a medley, as he gives only in the spring; when we closed our 
eyes it seemed as if he were a dozen different singers. Bluebirds added 
their sweet contralto, and several warblers their high pitched soprano, 
fortunately short. 
We listened to the song of the indigo bunting with its curious ending of 
“fish, fish, fish, fish,’ all in moderate tempo; to song sparrows, without 
