occupied by a Blue-Bird, unless
preoccupied by a bird of some other species. There is commonly so great
a demand for such accommodations among the feathered tribes, that it is
not unusual to see birds of several different species contending for the
possession of one box.

After the middle of August, as a new race of winged creatures awake into
life, the birds, who sing of the seed-time, the flowers, and of the
early summer harvests, give place to the inferior band of
insect-musicians. The reed and the pipe are laid aside, and myriads of
little performers have taken up the harp and the lute, and make the air
resound with the clash and din of their various instruments. An anthem
of rejoicing swells up from myriads of unseen harpists, who heed not the
fate that awaits them, but make themselves merry in every place that is
visited by sunshine or the south-wind. The golden-rod sways its
beautiful nodding plumes in the borders of the fields and by the rustic
roadsides; the purple gerardia is bright in the wet meadows, and the
scarlet lobelia in the channels of the sunken streamlets. But the birds
heed them not; for these are not the wreaths that decorate the halls of
their festivities. Since the rose and the lily have faded, they have
ceased to be tuneful; some, like the Bobolink, assemble in small
companies, and with a melancholy chirp seem to mourn over some sad
accident that has befallen them; others still congregate about their
usual resorts, and seem almost like strangers in the land.

Nature provides inspiration for every sentiment that contributes to the
happiness of man, as she provides sustenance for his various physical
wants. But all is not gladness that elevates the soul into bliss; we may
be made happy by sentiments that come not from rejoicing, even from
objects that waken tender recollections of sorrow. As if Nature designed
that the soul of man should find sympathy, in all its healthful moods,
from the voices of her creatures, and from the sounds of inanimate
objects, she has provided that all seasons should pour into his ear some
pleasant intimations of heaven. In autumn, when the harvest-hymn of the
day-time has ceased, at early nightfall, the green nocturnal
grasshoppers commence their autumnal dirge, and fill the mind with a
keen sense of the rapid passing of time. These sounds do not sadden the
mind, but deepen the tone of our feelings, and prepare us for a renewal
of cheerfulness, by inspiring us with