if he would be
happy with nature. And if at some future time--as often happens--the
mystery is solved, the joy is great enough to pay for waiting, and much
greater than if he had worried and tramped the country over in attempts
to settle it.

I have seen it recommended as the best way to know birds, to follow
every note heard, till the bird is found and identified. This method
requires great activity, and often an hour's search results in the
discovery of an unfamiliar note of a familiar bird,--the robin or
sparrow, perhaps. Meanwhile one has missed a dozen charming scenes in
bird-life, and a chance to make acquaintances worth more than the
gratification of that curiosity. The wiser course, it seems to me, is to
learn to be content with what comes to you, and not mourn over what
eludes you; to be happy with what nature offers you, nor make yourself
miserable over what she for the present withholds; to adopt for your
motto the grand words of a fellow bird-lover,--

"What is mine shall know my face."

And in spite of such regrets, enough is always left to repay patient
waiting. From across the brook comes the unceasing cry of the Maryland
yellow-throat, "Witches here! witches here!" and you can readily believe
him, especially as with your best efforts you can see scarcely more than
a suggestion of his quaint black mask, as a small form dives into the
thick bushes.

Nor are birds the only attraction in this most fascinating nook; there
are flowers. Through the dead pine leaves on which we sit, here and
there thrusts itself up a slender stem, holding upright one of
Colorado's matchless blossoms. This is the chosen nook of the rare
gilia, which hides itself under the edge of a bush, or close against a
low tree, bearing its pink and coral treasures modestly out of sight,
until a flower-seeking eye spies it, glowing like a gem in the green
world about it. Under the shrubs which hem in our nook on one side grows
here and there a rosy cyclamen; out in the sunshine are bunches of
bluebells; down the bank beside the water are great masses of golden
columbine, while a fragrant veil of blooming clematis is flung over the
weeds between. It is a rarely lovely and flowery spot.

[Sidenote: _SAUCY LITTLE WRENS._]

We are not far from the world, however; this canon-like valley of the
Minnelowan is narrow, and through it passes the road. Moreover, there
are many openings that might reveal us to the procession of tourists on
thei