the surface of the waters, so lightly as hardly to impress. a dimple on the glossy sheen; and multitudes of fishes are gambolling among their long stems in the clear depths below. Among the fragrant white lilies are interspersed the more curious though less delicate flowers of the yellow lily; and in clusters here and there upon the shore, where the turf is dank and tremulous, the purple sarracenias bow their heads over lands that have never felt the plough. The alders and birches cast a beautiful shade upon the mirrored border of the lake, the birds are singing melodiously among their branches, and clusters of ripe raspberries overhang the banks as we sail along their shelvy sides.

But we listen in vain on our rural excursions for the songs of multitudes of birds that were tuneful a few weeks since. The chattering bobolink, merriest bird of June, has become silent; he will soon doff his black coat and yellow epaulettes, and put on the russet garb of winter. His voice is heard no more in concert with the general anthem of Nature. He has become silent with all his merry kindred, and, instead of the lively notes poured out so merrily for the space of two months, we hear only a plaintive chirping, as the birds wander about the fields in scattered parties, no longer employed in the cares of wedded life. But there are several of our warblers that still remain tuneful. The little wood-sparrow sings more loudly than ever, the vireo and wren still enliven the gardens, and the hermit-thrush daily utters his liquid strains from his deep sylvan retreat upon the wooded hills.

In the place of the birds myriads of chirping insects. pour forth during the heat of the day a continual din of merry voices. Day by day are they stringing their harps anew, and leading out a fresh host of musicians, making ready to gladden the autumn with the fulness of their

songs. At intervals during the hottest of the weather, we hear the peculiar spinning notes of the harvest-fly, a species of locust, beginning low and with a gradual swell, increasing in loudness for a few seconds, then slowly dying away into silence. To my mind these sounds are vivid remembrancers of the pleasures and languishment of noonday, of cool shades apart from sultry heats, of repose beneath embowering canopies of willows, or grateful repasts of fruits in the summer orchard.

The season of haymaking has arrived, the mowers are busy in their occupation, and the whetting of the scythe blends harmoniously with the sounds of animated nature. The air is filled with the fragrance of new-mown hay, the dying incense-offering of the troops of flowers that perish beneath the fatal scythe. Many are the delightful remembrances connected with haymaking to those who have spent their youth in the country. In moderate summer weather there is no more delightful occupation. Every toil is pleasant that leads us into green fields and fills the mind with the cheerfulness of all living things.

But summer, with all its delightful occasions of joy and rejoicing, is in one respect the most melancholy season of the year. We are now the constant witnesses of some regretful change in the aspect of nature, reminding us of the fate of all things and the transitoriness of existence. Every morning sun looks down upon the graves of whole tribes of flowers that were but yesterday the pride and glory of the fields. Day by day as I pursue my walks, while rejoicing at the discovery of some new and beautiful visitant of the meads, I am suddenly affected with sorrow upon looking around in vain for the little companion of my former excursions, now drooping and faded and breathing its last breath of fragrance into the air.

I am then reminded of early friends who are no longer with the living; who were cut down, one by one, like the

flowers, leaving their places to be supplied with new friends, perhaps equally lovely and worthy of our affections, but whose even greater loveliness and worth will never comfort us for the loss of those who have departed. Like flowers, they smiled upon us for a brief season, and, like flowers, they perished after remaining with us but to teach us how to love and how to mourn. The birds likewise sojourn with us only long enough to remind us of the joy of their presence and to afford us an occasion of sorrow when they leave us. We have hardly grown familiar with their songs ere they become silent and prepare for their annual migration. They are like those agreeable companions among our friends who are ever roaming about the world on errands of duty or pleasure, and who only divide with us that pleasant intercourse which they share with other friendly circles in different parts of the earth.

It is now midsummer. Already do we perceive the lengthening of the nights and the shortening of the sun's diurnal orbit. We are reminded by the first observation of this change that summer is rapidly passing away; and we think upon it with a painful sense of the mutability of the seasons. But let us not lament that Nature has ordained these alternations; for though there is no change that does not bring with it some lingering sorrows over the past, yet may it not be that these vicissitudes are the true sources of that happiness which we attribute only to the immediate causes of pleasure? Every month, while it sadly reminds us of the departed joys and beauties of the last, brings with it a recompense in bounties and blessings which the preceding month could not afford. While rejoicing, therefore, amid the voluptuous delights of summer, we will not regret that we cannot live forever among enervating luxuries. With the aid of temperance and virtue, all seasons as they come may be made equal

sources of enjoyment. And may it not be that life itself is but a season in the revolving year of eternity, the vernal season of our immortality, that leads not round and round in a circle, but onward, in an everlasting progression, to greater goodness and greater bliss, until the virtues we now cherish have ripened into eternal felicity?

BIRDS OF THE PASTURE AND FOREST.

II.

THE HERMIT-THRUSH.

THE bird whose song I describe in this essay has always seemed to me to be the smallest of the Thrushes. But as I have never killed any bird for the purpose of learning its specific characters, I am liable to be mistaken in many points of identification. It has been my habit from my earliest years, whenever I heard a note that was new and striking, to watch day after day, until I discovered the songster, and, having always had excellent sight, I have never used a telescope. The bird whose notes I describe below, when I have seen it upon a tree or upon the ground, has seemed to conform more nearly to the description given in books of the HermitThrush, both in size and color, than to that given of the Wood-Thrush.

The notes of this bird are not startling or readily distinguished. Some dull ears might not hear them, unless their attention was directed to the sounds. They are loud, liquid, and sonorous, and they fail to attract attention only on account of the long pauses between the different strains. We must link all these strains together to enjoy the full pleasure they are capable of affording, though any single one alone would entitle the bird to considerable reputation as a songster. He also sings as much at broad noonday as at any other time, differing in this respect from the Veery, who prefers the twilight of morn and even. In another important respect he differs