104 THAT WITCHING SONG. 



their own birds and plants. A chapter, did I 

 say? A book, a dozen books, the country is 

 full of material.) 



"I shall find that bird," I said, "if I stay a 

 year." In the morning I set out. The song 

 had come from the belt of trees that hang lov 

 ingiy over a little stream on its merry way down 

 the mountain, and thither I turned my steps. 

 Now, my hostess had a drove of twenty cows, 

 wild, head-tossing creatures, — "Holsteins " they 

 were, — and having half a dozen pastures, they 

 were changed about from day to day. Driving 

 them every morning was almost as exciting as 

 the stampede of a drove of horses, and it seemed 

 as if they could never reconcile themselves to the 

 idiosyncrasies of the American woman. The 

 pasture where they were shut for the day was 

 as sacred from my foot as if it were filled with 

 mad dogs. My mere appearance near the fence 

 was a signal for a headlong race to the spot to 

 see what on earth I was doing now. 



I went into the field, looking cautiously 

 about, and satisfying myself that the too curi- 

 ous foreigners were not within sight, found a 

 comfortable seat on a bank overlooking the 

 whole beautiful view of the brook and its 

 waving green borders, and commanding the ap- 

 proach to my side of the field. 



This time again my mysterious singer proved 



