There is something indescribably exhilarating about starting for an early drive in the country before sunrise on a bright, clear morning in midsummer, when “the earth is awaking, the sky and the ocean, the river and forest, the mountain and plain.”  Who has not felt the sweet freshness of early morning before “the sunshine is all on the wing” or the birds awaken and begin to chatter and to sing?  There is a hush over everything; later is heard the lowing of cattle, the twitter of birds and hum of insect life, proclaiming the birth of the new day.  Passing an uncultivated field, overgrown with burdock, wild carrots, mullein, thistle and milk weed, Mary alighted and gathered some of the pods of the latter, inclosing imitation of softest down, which she used later for filling sofa pillows.

“Look at those pretty wild canaries!” exclaimed Aunt Sarah, “yellow as gold, swinging on the stem of a tall weed.”

“Professor Schmidt, can you tell me the name of that weed?” questioned Mary.  “I have always admired the plant, with its large leaves and long, drooping racemes of crimson seeds.

“That,” replied the Professor, “is a foreign plant, a weed called Equisetum from ‘Equi,’ a horse, and ’Setum’—­tail.  The country folk hereabout call it ‘Horsetail.’  It belongs to the Crptogamous or flowerless plants.  There are only four specimens of this plant in America.  I, too, have always greatly admired the plant.”

The Professor was quite a noted botanist.  There were few flowers, plants or weeds of which he was ignorant of the name or medicinal value.  Another bird lazily picked seeds from the thistle blossoms.  “See,” exclaimed Aunt Sarah, “one bird has a spear of grass in its mouth!”

“Yellow star grass,” said the Professor, “with which to make a nest.  They never mate until the last of June, or first part of July.  The tiny, little robbers ate up nearly all my sunflower seeds in the garden last summer.”

“Well,” replied Mary, “you know, Professor, the birds must have food.  They are the farmer’s best friend.  I hope you don’t begrudge them a few sunflower seeds, I love birds.  I particularly admire the ‘Baltimore Oriole,’ with their brilliant, orange-colored plumage; they usually make their appearance simultaneously with the blossoms in the orchard in the south meadow; or so Aunt Sarah tells me.  I love to watch them lazily swinging on the high branches of tall trees.  On the limb of a pear tree in the orchard one day, I saw firmly fastened, a long, pouch-like nest, woven with rare skill.  Securely fastened to the nest by various colored pieces of twine and thread was one of smaller size, like a lean-to added to a house, as if the original nest had been found too small to accommodate the family of young birds when hatched.  The oriole possesses a peculiar, sweet, high-whistled trill, similar to this—­’La-la-la-la,’ which always ends with the rising inflection.”

Fritz Schmidt, who had been listening intently to Mary, gravely remarked, “An oriole built a nest on a tall tree outside my bedroom window, and early every morning, before the family arise, I hear it sing over and over again what sounds exactly like ‘Lais Die Beevil!’ which translated means ’Read your Bible’.”