IX. 



THAT WITCHING SONG. 



A YEAR or two before setting up my tent in 

 the Black Kiver Country, began my acquaint- 

 ance with the author of the witching song. 



The time was evening ; the place, the veranda 

 of a friend's summer cottage at Lake George. 

 The vireo and the redstart had ceased their 

 songs; the cat-bird had flirted "good-night" 

 from the fence ; even the robin, last of all to go 

 to bed, had uttered his final peep and vanished 

 from sight and hearing ; the sun had gone down 

 behind the mountains across the lake, and I was 

 listening for the whippoorwill who lived at the 

 edge of the wood to take up the burden of song 

 and carry it into the night. 



Suddenly there burst upon the silence a song 

 that startled me. It was loud and distinct as 

 if very near, yet it had the spirit and the echoes 

 of the woods in it ; a wild, rare, thrilling strain, 

 the woods themselves made vocal. Such it 

 seemed to me. I was strangely moved, and 

 filled from that moment with an undying deter- 

 mination to trace that witching song to the bird 

 that could utter it. 



