Except a single water thrush, on the first day of the month, I have seen no land bird that could be set down with certainty as a migrant, and in the eight days I have listed but thirty-seven species. And of this number twelve are represented in my notes by a single individual only. My walks have been short, it is fair to say, but they have taken me into good places. I could spin a long chapter on the birds I have not seen; but perhaps the best thing I could do, writing merely as an ornithologist, would be to make the week's record in two words: "No quorum."
My last hummingbird (but I hope for others before the month ends) was seen on the 2d. He was about a bed of tall cannas in a neighbor's dooryard, thrusting his tongue into the flowers, one after another, and I went near and focused my opera-glass upon him, taking my fill of his pretty feathers and prettier movements. It was really the best music of the week. The sun was on his emerald back and wings, making them shine.
One thing that pleased me, as it always does, was his address in flying backwards.
