AN IDLER ON MISSION AMY RIDGE. 17 



flesh and blood. Along the upper edge of 

 the glen a road ran downward into the val- 

 ley east of the Ridge, and now and then a 

 carriage or a horseman passed. It would 

 have been good to follow them. All that 

 valley country, as I surveyed it from the 

 railway and the tower, had an air of invit- 

 ingness : beautiful woods, with footpaths 

 and unfrequented roads. In them I must 

 have found birds, flowers, and many a de- 

 lightful nook. If the Fates could have sent 

 me one cool day ! 



Yet for all my complaining, I have lived 

 few more enjoyable Sunday forenoons than 

 one that I passed most inactively in this 

 same hillside hollow. As I descended the 

 bank to the spring, two or three goldfinches 

 were singing (goldfinch voices go uncom- 

 monly well in chorus, and the birds seem to 

 know it) ; a female tanager sat before me 

 calling cUppity, dippity ; a field sparrow, 

 a mocking wren, and a catbird sang in as 

 many different directions; and a pair of 

 thrashers — whose nest could not be far 

 away — flitted nervously about, uttering 

 characteristic moaning whistles. If they 

 felt half as badly as their behavior indi- 



