botany,--or to observe the ferns, of which I count six varieties,
some gigantic ones nearly shoulder-high.

At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a bank of
club-moss, so richly inlaid with partridge-berry and curious
shining leaves--with here and there in the bordering a spire of the
false wintergreen strung with faint pink flowers and exhaling the
breath of a May orchard--that it looks too costly a couch for such
an idler, I recline to note what transpires. The sun is just past
the meridian, and the afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most
birds sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon,
though there are occasional bursts later in the day in which nearly
all voices join; while it is not till the twilight that the full
power and solemnity of the thrush's hymn is felt.

My attention is soon arrested by a pair of hummingbirds, the
ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from
me. The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks
exultingly as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge
her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a
moment both are gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the
throats are all atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and
analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers;
while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the
divine contralto of the hermit. That richly modulated warble
proceeding from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears
would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from that
rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious
strain, a bright noonday song, full of health and assurance,
indicating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. As I come