6 JUNE IN FRANCONIA. 
youngest of us could surmount the wall, the 
singer took wing, flew over our heads far 
into the woods, and all was silent. It was 
too bad; but there would be another day to- 
morrow. Meantime, we kept on up the hill, 
and soon were in the old forest, listening 
to bay - breasted warblers, Blackburnians, 
black-polls, and so on, while the noise of the 
mountain brook on our right, a better singer 
than any of them, was never out of our 
ears. “You are going up,” it said. “I 
wish you joy. But you see how it is; you 
will soon have to come down again.” 
I took leave of my companions at Profile 
Lake, they having planned an all-day excur- 
sion beyond, and started homeward by my- 
self. Slowly, and with many stops, I saun- 
tered down the long hill, through the forest 
(the stops, I need not say, are commonly the 
major part of a naturalist’s ramble, — the 
golden beads, as it were, the walk itself be- 
ing only the string), till I reached the spot 
where we had been serenaded in the morn- 
ing by our mysterious stranger. Yes, he 
was again singing, this time not far from 
the road, in a moderately thick growth of 
small trees, under which the ground was 
