d in a tree beside
the house. For a few moments he panted for breath, and then he opened
his mouth to tell the news to whom it might concern. In rapid succession
he uttered half a dozen jay-baby squawks, rested a moment, then repeated
them, hopping about the tree in great excitement.

In less than thirty seconds his cries were answered. A bluejay appeared
on the barn; another was seen in a spruce close by; three came to a tall
tree across the road; and from near and far we heard the calls of
friends trooping to the rescue.

Meanwhile the birds of the neighborhood, where the squawk of a jay was
seldom heard, began to take an interest in this unusual gathering. Two
cedar birds, with the policy of peace which their Quaker garb suggests,
betook themselves to a safe distance, a cat-bird went to the tree to
interview the clamorous stranger, a vireo made its appearance on the
branches, and followed the big baby in blue from perch to perch, looking
at him with great curiosity, while a veery uttered his plaintive cry
from the fence below.

All this attention was too much for a bluejay, who always wants plenty
of elbow room in this wide world. He flew off towards the woods, where,
after a proper interval to see that no more babies were in trouble, he
was followed by his grown-up relatives from every quarter. But I think
they had a convention to talk it over, up in the woods, for squawks and
cries of many kinds came from that direction for a long time.

IN THE BLACK RIVER COUNTRY.

Where shall we keep the holiday?

Up and away! where haughty woods
Front the liberated floods:
We will climb the broad-backed hills,
Hear the uproar of their joy;
We will mark the leaps and gleams
Of the new-delivered streams,
And the murmuring river of sap
Mount in the pipes of the trees.

And the colors of joy in the bird
And the love in his carol heard.
Frog and lizard in holiday coats,
And turtle brave in his golden spots.

EMERSON.

IX.

THAT WITCHING SONG.

A year or two before setting up my tent in the Black River Country,
began my acquaintance with the author of the witching song.

The time was evening; the place, the veranda of a friend's summer
cottage at Lake George. The vireo and the redstart had ceased their
songs; the cat-bird had flirted "good-night" from the fence; even the
robin, last of all to go to bed, had uttered his final peep and vanished
from sight and hearing; the su