28 TRAMPS WITH AN ENTHUSIAST. 



The bird was not so pleased with my discov- 

 ery as I was. She perched on a tree over our 

 heads, and uttered the mournful veery cry ; and 

 though I did not so much as lay a finger on that 

 nest, I believe she deserted it at that moment, 

 for several days afterward it was found exactly 

 as on that day, with its one egg cold and aban- 

 doned. 



If I had not, through two summers' close 

 study, made myself very familiar with the vari- 

 ous calls and cries of the veery, I think I should 

 be driven wild by them ; for no bird that I know 

 can impart such distance to his notes, and few 

 can get around so silently and imobserved as he. 

 A great charm in his song is that it rarely bursts 

 upon your notice ; it appears to steal into your 

 consciousness, and in a moment the air seems 

 full of his breezy, woodsy music, his " quivering, 

 silvery song," as Cheney calls it. 



Not long were we allowed to meditate upon 

 the charms of the veery, for again the luring 

 song began, the other side of the belt of woods, 

 and off we started anew. This time we secured 

 the bird, or his name, which was all we desired. 

 The sweet beguiler turned out to be the warbler 

 mentioned above, the black-throated green, but 

 with a more than usually exquisite arrangement 

 of his notes. Indeed, my friend, who was what 

 I call warbler-mad, — a state of infatuation I 



