A WEEK ON WALBEWS RIDGE. 159 



or evoking ridiculous squeaking noises by 

 sucking idiotically the back of his hand. 

 Well, I was trying to find another bird, just 

 as he was trying to knock another marble 

 out of the ring. 



The spot invited such researches, — a 

 bushy swamp, quite unlike the dry woods 

 and rocky woodland brooks which I had 

 found everywhere else. I had seen my 

 first cerulean warbler on Lookout Mountain, 

 my first Cape May warbler on Cameron 

 Hill, my first Kentucky warbler on Mission- 

 ary Kidge, and my first blue-winged yellow 

 warbler at the Chickamauga battlefield. If 

 Walden was to treat me equally well, as in 

 all fairness it ought, now was the time. 

 Looking, listening, and squeaking were alike 

 unrewarded, however, till I approached the 

 same spot on my return. Then some bird 

 sang a new song. I hoped it was a protho- 

 notary warbler, a bird I had never seen, and 

 about whose notes I knew nothing. More 

 likely it was a Louisiana water-thrush, a 

 bird I had seen, but had never heard sing. 

 Whichever it was, alas, it speedily fell silent, 

 and no beating of the bush proved of the 

 least avail. 



