12 Massachusetts Audubon Society 



a dozen times to his perch upon the top of a small ash tree, close by the 

 farm house, where all could admire him: the house wren sang melodiously 

 throughout the greater part of the day: grosbeaks seemed unusually 

 abundant; and both the yellow-billed and black-billed cuckoos called at 

 intervals, and showed themselves, that they might be distinguished by 

 those who so easily confuse the two species. A Blackburnian warbler 

 gave us a beautiful exhibition in the early morning, and several 

 other warblers gave abundant opportunity for the observers to study and 

 distinguish their songs. 



After the last of our guests had departed I went alone out on to the 

 ledge, to sum up the day's proceedings and to absorb some of the peace 

 and quiet which comes with the end of the day in such a place as this. 

 Just before sunset there were many songs and calls, but with the soften- 

 ing of the shadows these seemed to soften also, blending in perfect har- 

 mony with the tinting of the skies and the gradual dimming of the land- 

 scape. A solitary blackbird winged its way across the valley toward the 

 marshes; the sad, sweet song of the field sparrow now seemed doubly sweet, 

 as, unmingled with other voices, it rose from below among the sprout- 

 lands; chewinks and Maryland yellow-throats called occasionally — ^the 

 latter giving its less frequently heard call resembling the rattling notes of 

 the kingfisher. From somewhere up in the sky came the sharp, weird 

 cry of a nighthawk; then, as all became calm and serene, there came 

 drifting across the valley from the pines beyond, that wonderful song 

 of the hermit thrush — its clear, pure strains mounting up and up, until 

 they seemed to float between earth and heaven. Soon an ovenbird, mount- 

 ing on fluttering wings high over the tree-tops, gave its last ecstatic flight- 

 song before settling for the night; then — as if it were the very spirit of 

 the swamp incarnate — from somewhere out of the depths I heard the 

 silvery, tranquil strains of the veery. Responding in clear, flute-like notes 

 came the ringing song of the wood thrush, and ere the last of these 

 sweet tones had died away, the voice of the night seemed to speak in the 

 lonely call of the whip-poor-will. 



Moonlight was now fast flooding the valley and spreading its magic 

 veil over the hills. Having finished the little souvenir which I had been 

 whittling, I reluctantly rose to go, realizing that my day with the birds 

 had come to a close, and that the friendly night, with its mysteries and its 

 charms, had settled down once more over Moose Hill Sanctuary. 



