hairy, and the golden-wing. They
were all warm and snug, if they could only be persuaded to stay at home.
But from what I have seen of young birds, when their hour strikes they
go, be it fair or foul. To take the bitter with the sweet is their fate,
and no rain, however driving, no wind, however rough, can detain them an
hour when they feel the call of the inner voice which bids them go. I
have seen many birdlings start out in weather that from our point of
view should make the feathered folk, old or young, hug the nest or any
shelter they can find.

In the afternoon the rain had ceased, and we went out. How beautiful we
found the woods! More than ever I despair of

"Putting my woods in song."

Every fresh condition of light brings out new features. They are not the
same in the morning and the afternoon; sunshine makes them very
different from a gray sky; and heavy rain, which hangs still in drops
from every leaf and twig, changes them still more.

This time the tree-trunks were the most noticeable feature. Thoreau
speaks of rain waking the lichens into life, and we saw this as never
before. Not only does it bring out the colors and give a brightness and
richness they show at no other time, but it raises the leaves--if one
may so call them--makes them stand out fresh. The beeches were marvelous
with many shades of green, and of pink, from a delicate blush over the
whole tree, to bright vermilion in small patches. The birches, "most shy
and ladylike of trees," were intensely yellow; some lovely with dabs of
green, while others looked like rugged old heroes of many battles, with
great patches of black, and ragged ends of loosened bark fringing them
like an Indian's war dress, up to the branches. Every hollow under the
trees had become a clear pond to reflect these beauties, and lively
little brooks rippled across the path, adding to the woods the only
thing they lacked,--running water.

Instinctively our feet turned up the path to the oven-bird's nest, so
narrow that we brushed a shower from every bush. There he was, singing
at that moment. "Teacher! teacher! teacher!" he called, with head thrown
up and wings drooped. And then while we looked he left his perch, and
passed up between the branches out of our sight, his sweet ecstatic
love-song floating down to delight our souls.

Surely, we thought, all must be well in the cabin among the dead leaves,
or he could not sing so. Yet life had not been all rose-colored