still a moment. Although the sun was approaching the zenith, there was
not the comparative silence that pervades a summer noon. Bird calls
resounded everywhere; there was a constant flutter of wings, as if all
were bent upon making or renewing acquaintance--an occupation frequently
interrupted by transports of song.

"Do you suppose they really recognize each other?" Amy asked Webb, as he
threw down an armful of wood near her.

"Dr. Marvin would insist that they do," he replied, laughing. "When with
him, one must be wary in denying to the birds any of the virtues and
powers. He would probably say that they understood each other as well as
we do. They certainly seem to be comparing notes, in one sense of the
word at least. Listen, and you will hear at this moment the song of
bluebird, robin, both song and fox sparrow, phoebe, blue jay, high-holder,
and crow--that is, if you can call the notes of the last two birds a song."

"What a lovely chorus!" she cried, after a few moments' pause.

"Wait till two months have passed, and you will hear a grand symphony
every morning and evening. All the members of our summer opera troupe do
not arrive till June, and several weeks must still pass before the great
star of the season appears."

"Indeed! and who is he, or she?"

"Both he and she--the woodthrush and his mate. They are very aristocratic
kin of these robins. A little before them will come two other
blood-relations, Mr. and Mrs. Brownthrasher, who, notwithstanding their
family connection with the high toned woodthrush and jolly, honest robin,