I say, how many such summer friends have already left us? An
odd coincidence, however, warns me at this very moment that too much is
not to be made of merely negative experiences; for even while I was
penciling the foregoing sentence about the blue golden-wing there came
through the open window the hoarse upward-sliding chant of his close
neighbor, the prairie warbler. I have not heard that sound before since
the 6th of July, and it is now the 22d of August. The singers had not
gone, I knew; I saw several of them (and beautiful creatures they are!)
a few days ago among the pitch pines; but why did that fellow, after
being dumb for six or seven weeks, pipe up at that precise moment, as
if to punctuate my ruminations with an interrogation point? Does he like
this dog-day morning, with its alternate shower and sunshine, and its
constant stickiness and heat? In any case I was glad to hear him, though
I cannot in the spirit of veracity call him a good singer. Whist! There
goes an oriole, a gorgeous creature, flashing from one elm to another,
and piping in his happiest manner as he flies. It might be the middle of
May, to judge from his behavior. _He_ likes dog-day weather, there can
be no question of that, however the rest of the world may grumble.

This is a time when one sees many birds, but few species. Bluebirds are
several times as abundant as in June. The air is sweet with their calls
at this moment, and once in a while some father of the flock lets his
happiness run over in song. One cannot go far now without finding the
road full of chipping sparrows, springing up in their pretty,
characteristic way, and letting the breeze catch them. The fences and
wayside apple-trees are lively with kingbirds and phoebes. I am
already watching the former with a kind of mournful interest. In ten
days, or some such matter, we shall have seen the last of their saucy
antics. Gay tyrants! They are among the first birds of whom I can
confidently say, "They are gone;" and they seem as wide-awake when they
go as when they come. Being a man, I regret their departure; but if I
were a crow, I think I should be for observing the 31st of August as a
day of annual jubilee.

A few years ago, in September, I saw the white-breasted swallows
congregated in the Ipswich dunes,--a sight never to be forgotten. On the
morning of the 9th, the fourth day of our visit, a considerable
flock--but no more, perhaps, than we had been seeing daily--came
skimmin