the Song Sparrow sounds his reveille of three notes and a roulade—“ Maids, maids, maids, put your kettle-ettle on.” The Robin answers with his clarion notes, and the Bluebird, mildly plaintive, seems to regret that the quiet night is past, and sighs — “Dear, dear, think of it, think of it.” Then the various Swallows begin their twitterings, and the Chimney Swift redoubles his Winged pursuit of insects, and the Purple Martins, rising in pairs, coquette in mid-air, and their cheerful warble seems to drop from the clouds. As it becomes light, the Phoebe joins his “ Pewit, phoebe—a,” with the Wood Pewee’s—“Pewee, pewee peer,” and the Field Sparrow whistles and trills somewhat in the key of the Chipping Sparrow. Then up from the meadow wells the song of the Bobolink, our only bird that rivals the English Lark in singing and soaring, pouring out its delicious melody with virile fervour, while in the same field the Meadowlark rings his bell»like — “Spring 0’ the year, spring 0’ the year ! ” and the Indigo Bunting lisps from the briars.

One by one, the Oriole, the Song and Wood Thrushes, the Mourning Dove, Catbird, Towhee, Wrens, W'arblers, Chat, and the obstreperous Vireos chime in. These are the birds that you may hear in your garden and the near-by meadows. Down in the lowlands the Red-winged Blackbird “flutes his okalee,” the Crows keep up an incessant eawing, and in the woods between these lands and the marshes, the Herons cry; while from the marshes themselves the Snipe call. The flocking Sandpipers “peep” from the beach edge, and ihe migrating Ducks call as they settle in the flags.

Above the inland woods the Nighthawk, the Whip—poor- will’s kinsman, skirling, circles a few times before hiding from day. There are Hawk cries, as Cooper’s Hawk (the dreaded chicken-killer) bears a tender morsel to her nest- lings already well fledged, Who are in the top of the tall hickory, and the Quail whistles “ Bob—white! Poor Bob- white!” the Ruffed Grouse clucks henlike, and the Wood- cock calls like his brother Snipe.

It is in these woods, within sound of running water, that you may hear the Veery, though he is not so much the bird

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