IN THE HEMLOCKS. 67 



At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a 

 oank 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 

 {Pyrola rotundifolia) 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 me- 

 ridian, 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 hum- 

 ming- birds, the ruby-throated, disporting themselves 

 in a low bush a few yards from me. The female 

 takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exult- 

 ingly 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 fly-catchers ; while, soaring above all, a little 

 withdrawn and alone, rises the divine soprano of the 

 hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding 

 trom the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed 

 ears would mistake for *he voice of the scarlet tanager, 

 comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted gross- 



