AN AFTERNOON BY THE RIVEB. 109 



two Kentucky warblers were singing in op- 

 posite directions. So I called them, at all 

 events. But they were too far away to be 

 gone after, as my mood then was, and soon 

 I began to wonder whether I might not be 

 mistaken. Possibly they were Carolina 

 wrens, whose cherry is not altogether unlike 

 the Kentucky's hlurwee. The question 

 will perhaps seem unreasonable to readers 

 long familiar with the two birds ; but let 

 them put themselves in a stranger's place, 

 remembering that this was only his third 

 or fourth hearing of the Kentucky's music. 

 As the doubt grew on me (and nothing 

 grows faster than doubt) I sat down and 

 listened. Yes, they were Kentuckies ; but 

 anon the uncertainty came back, and I kept 

 my seat. Then a sound of humming-bird 

 wings interrupted my cogitations, and in 

 another moment the bird was before me, 

 sipping at a scarlet catchfly, — battlefield 

 pink. I caught the flash of his throat. It 

 was as red as the flower — beyond which 

 there is nothing to be said. Then he van- 

 ished (rather than went away), as humming- 

 birds do ; but in ten minutes he was there 

 again. I was glad to see him. Birds of his 



