One thinks of the great myth of the Tempter and the “cause of all our woe,” and wonders if the Arch One is not now playing off some of his pranks before him.  Whether we call it snake or devil matters little.  I could but admire his terrible beauty, however; his black, shining folds, his easy, gliding movement, head erect, eyes glistening, tongue playing like subtle flame, and the invisible means of his almost winged locomotion.

The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up the most agonizing cry,—­at times fluttering furiously about their pursuer, and actually laying hold of his tail with their beaks and claws.  On being thus attacked, the snake would suddenly double upon himself and follow his won body back, thus executing a strategic movement that at first seemed almost to paralyze his victim and place her within his grasp.  Not quite, however.  Before his jaws could close upon the coveted prize the bird would tear herself away, and, apparently faint and sobbing, retire to a higher branch.  His reputed powers of fascination availed him little, though it is possible that a frailer and less combative bird might have been held by the fatal spell.  Presently, as he came gliding down the slender body of a leaning alder, his attention was attracted by a slight movement of my arm; eyeing me an instant, with that crouching, utter motionless gaze which I believe only snakes and devils can assume, he turned quickly,—­a feat which necessitated something like crawling over his own body,—­and glided off through the branches, evidently recognizing in me a representative of the ancient parties he once so cunningly ruined.  A few moments after, as he lay carelessly disposed in the top of a rank alder, trying to look as much like a crowded branch as his supple, shining form would admit, the old vengeance overtook him.  I exercised my prerogative, and a well-directed missile, in the shape of a stone, brought him looping and writhing to the ground.  After I had completed his downfall and quiet had been partially restored, a half-fledged member of the bereaved household came out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon a decayed branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt in celebration of the victory.

Till the middle of July there is a general equilibrium; the tide stands poised; the holiday spirit is unabated.  But as the harvest ripens beneath the long, hot days, the melody gradually ceases.  The young are out of the nest and must be cared for, and the moulting season is at hand.  After the cricket has commenced to drone his monotonous refrain beneath your window, you will not, till another season, hear the wood thrush in all his matchless eloquence.  The bobolink has become careworn and fretful, and blurts out snatches of his song between his scolding and upbraiding, as you approach the vicinity of his nest, oscillating between anxiety for his brood and solicitude for his musical reputation.  Some of the sparrows still sing, and occasionally across the hot fields, from a tall tree in the edge of the forest, comes the rich note of the scarlet tanager.  This tropical-colored bird loves the hottest weather, and I hear him even in dog-days.