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IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 81 
accepted, they would every one of them take 
to hiding like bashful children. 
The white-throat is one of the birds for 
whom I cherish a special liking. On my first 
trip to the mountains I jumped off the train for 
a moment at Bartlett, and had hardly touched 
the ground before I heard his familiar call. 
Here, then, was Mr. Peabody at home. Season 
after season he had camped near me in Massa- 
chusetts, and many a time I had been gladdened 
by his lively serenade ; now he greeted me from 
his own native woods. So far as my observa- 
tions have gone, he is common throughout the 
mountain region; and that in spite of the 
standard guide-book, which puts him down as 
patronizing the Glen House almost exclusively. 
He knows the routes too well to need any guide, 
however, and may be excused for his ignorance 
of the official programme. It is wonderful how 
shy he is, —the more wonderful, because, dur- 
ing his migrations, his manner is so very differ- 
ent. Then, even ina city park you may watch 
him at your leisure, while his loud, clear whis- 
tle is often to be heard rising above a din of 
horse-cars and heavy wagons. But here, in his 
summer quarters, you will listen to his song a 
hundred times before you once catch a glimpse 
of the singer. At first thought it seems strange 
that a bird should be most at home when he is 
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