te. These were the
only occupants of the mountain's brow at the time of our visit, although
in one of the hollows below us the spurred and green-tailed towhees were
rendering a selection from Haydn's "Creation," probably "The heavens are
telling."

No water was to be found from the bottom of the canyon to the summit of
the mountain; all was as dry as the plain itself. The feathered tenants
of the dizzy height were doubtless compelled to fly down into the gorge
for drinking and bathing purposes, and then wing up again to the
summit--certainly no light task for such birds as the wrens and
towhees.

Before daybreak one morning I made my way to a small park on the
outskirts of the village to listen to the birds' matutinal concert. The
earliest singers were the western robins, which began their carols at
the first hint of the coming dawn; the next to break the silence were
the western wood-pewees; then the summer warblers chimed in, followed by
the western grassfinches, Bullock's orioles, meadow-larks, and lark
sparrows, in the order named. Before daylight had fully come a family of
mountain bluebirds were taking their breakfast at the border of the
park, while their human relatives were still snoring in bed. The
bluebirds are governed by old-fashioned rules even in this very "modern"
age, among their maxims being,--

"Early to bed and early to rise,
Makes bluebirds healthy and wealthy and wise."

Just now I came across a pretty conceit of John B. Tabb, which more
aptly sets off the mountain blue than it does his eastern relative, and
which I cannot forbear quoting:

"When God made a host of them,
One little flower lacked a stem
To hold its blossom blue;
So into it He breathed a song,
And suddenly, with petals strong
As wings, away it flew."

And there is Eben E. Rexford, who almost loses himself in a tangle of
metaphors in his efforts to express his admiration of this bird with
the cerulean plumes. Hark to his rhapsody:

"Winged lute that we call a bluebird, you blend in a silver strain
The sound of the laughing waters, the patter of spring's sweet rain,
The voice of the winds, the sunshine, and fragrance of blossoming
things;
Ah! you are an April poem that God has dowered with wings."

On our return to the plains from a two weeks' trip to Georgetown and
Gray's Peak, we spent several days at Arvada, a village about halfway
between Denver and Golden. T