high-holes thrust
their heads out of the door and called; blackbird and martin babies flew
over with their parents, talking eagerly all the way; barn swallow
nestlings crowded up to the window-sill to look out and be fed by
passing mothers; and cautious young kingbirds, in black caps, dressed
their feathers on the edge of the nest.

But days hurried on; before long, young birds were as big as their
fathers and had joined the ranks of the grown-ups. There were no more
babies left on tree or lawn, and holiday time was over.

VI.

IN SEARCH OF THE BLUEJAY.

"The grass grows up to the front door, and the forest comes down to the
back; it's the end of the road, and the woods are full of bluejays."

Such was the siren song that lured me to a certain nook on the side of
the highest mountain in Massachusetts one June. The country was
gloriously green and fresh and young, as if it had just been created.
From my window I looked down the valley beginning between Greylock and
Ragged Mountain, and winding around other and (to me) nameless hills
till lost in the distance, apparently cut square off by what looked like
an unbroken chain from east to west. The heavy forests which covered the
hills ended in steep grass-covered slopes, with dashing and hurrying
mountain brooks between, and, save the road, scarcely a trace of man was
seen.

The birds were already there. The robin came on to the rail fence, and
with rain pouring off his sleek coat, bade us "Be cheery! be cheery!"
the bluebird sat silent and motionless on a fence post; the "veery's
clarion" rang out all the evening from the valley below; many little
birds sang and called; and

"The gossip of swallows filled all the sky."

But the bluejays?

The bluejays, too, were there. One saucily flirted his tail at me from
the top of a tree; another sly rogue flaunted his blue robes over a wall
and disappeared the other side; a third shrieked in my face and slipped
away behind a tree; but one and all were far too wise to reveal their
domestic secrets. I knew mysteries were on foot among them, as we know
little folk are in mischief by their unnatural stillness, but I knew
also that not until every jay baby was out of the nest, and there was
nothing to hide, should I see that cunning bird in his usual noisy,
careless role.

The peculiarity of that particular corner of nature's handiwork was that
any way you went you had to climb, except east, where you might roll if