MORNING IN THE NOBTH WOODS. 121 



chusetts, I found one with a song so absurdly 

 peculiar that I spent some time in making 

 sure of its author. It is to be hoped that 

 this tendency to individual variation will 

 persist 'and increase in the case of this spe- 

 cies till something more melodious than its 

 present sibilant monotony is evolved; till 

 beauty and art are mated, as they ought to 

 be. Who would not love to hear the music 

 of all our birds a few millions of years 

 hence? What a singer the hermit thrush 

 will be, for example, when his tune is equal 

 to his voice I Indigo-birds, white-eyed vireos 

 and prairie warblers abounded. As for the 

 chats, they saluted me on the right and on 

 the left, till I said, " Chats, Chattanooga," 

 and felt almost as if Nature had perpetrated 

 a huge fantastic pun on her own account. 

 If I could have had the ear of the enterpris- 

 ing owners of this embryo suburb, — a syn- 

 dicate, I dare say they call themselves, — 

 I would have suggested to them to name it 

 " Chat City." 



I wandered carelessly about, now following 

 a bird over a roimded hiU (one, I remember, 

 was covered literally from end to end with 

 the common brake, — Ptens, — which will 



