A WEEK ON WALDEN'S BIDGE. 163 



easier to sit down than to saw wood, 

 isn't it? " said I. Possibly lie was unused' 

 to such aphoristic modes of speech. He 

 took time to consider. Then he smiled, and 

 said, " Yes, sir." The answer was all-suffi- 

 cient. We spoke from experience, both of 

 us ; and between men who know, what- 

 ever the matter in hand, disagreement is 

 impossible and amplification needless. 



Three days later — my last day on the 

 Ridge — I had better luck at the swamp. 

 The stranger was singing on the nearer 

 edge as I approached, and I had simply to 

 draw near and look at him, — a Louisiana 

 water - thrush. He sang, and I listened ; 

 and farther along, at the little bridge where 

 I had first heard the song, another like him 

 was in tune. The strain, as warbler songs 

 go (" water-thrushes " being not thrushes, 

 but warblers), is rather striking, — clear, 

 pretty loud, of about ten notes, the first pair 

 of which are longest and best. I speak of 

 what I heard, and give, of course, my own 

 impression. Audubon pronounces the notes 

 " as powerful and mellow, and at times as 

 varied," as those of the nightingale, and 

 Wilson waxes almost equally enthusiastic in 



