When daylight comes again seek the path which leads through
Orchard and Field
and once more you are among the little folk who love the warm, bright sunshine.
The birds leave the shade to sit on the old rail fence and sing joyously. You will see the busy little wren here, tripping about importantly, and the song-sparrow, too, which loves to perch on the top rail and sing its heart away. Hidden deep in the tangled grass or nestled amid the clover you may find the nest of the bobolink. Do you know the lines which occur in one of Saxe Holm’s stories:
“I wonder what the clover thinks?
Intimate friend of the bobolinks.”
When you remember these you will remember to look for the bobolink where you see the red clover.
There is a concert going on at this very minute; do you hear it? The high soprano is taking the lead, the soft, gurgling notes of the contralto are coming in, and now the whole chorus has burst into song and one of the sweetest of Nature’s anthems is being given. You must hear it, some of you, for no matter what the season, in this great land of ours, somewhere the warm summer sun is shining, somewhere, without money and without price, these beautiful songsters are pouring out their souls in exquisite melody.
Stop and think what the birds are doing for you; think of what life would be without them and how near akin they are to all that is joyous and bright within you; read “The Birds of Killingworth” in Longfellow’s “Tales of a Wayside Inn” and then wear the dead bodies of your little friends on your hats if you can.
As you cross the pasture be on the lookout for the