FIVE DAYS ON MOUNT MANSFIELD. 95 
characteristic northern songster, himself 
such a lover of mountains as never to be 
heard, here in New England, at least, and 
in summer-time, except amid the dwindling 
spruce forests of the upper slopes. I have 
never before seen him so familiar. On the 
Mount Washington range and on Mount 
Lafayette it is easy enough to hear his 
music, but one rarely gets more than a fly- 
ing glimpse of the bird. Here, as I say, he 
was never out of hearing, and seldom long 
out of sight, even from the door-step. The 
young were already leaving the nest, and un- 
doubtedly the birds had disposed themselves 
for the season before the unpainted, inoffen- 
sive-looking little hotel showed any signs of 
occupancy. The very next year a friend of 
mine visited the place and could discover no 
trace of them. They had found their human 
neighbors a vexation, perhaps, and on re- 
turning from their winter’s sojourn in Costa 
Rica, or where not, had sought summer 
quarters on some less trodden peak. 
Not so was it with the myrtle warblers, I 
venture to assert, though on this point I 
have never taken my friend’s testimony. 
Perfectly at home as they are in the wildest 
