88 IN THE WHI9#? MOUNTAINS. 
first be able to tell the one from the other. He 
has never heard them, he protests; which is 
true enough, for he never goes into the woods 
of his own town, or, if by chance he does, he 
leaves his ears behind him in the shop. His 
case is not peculiar. Men and women gaze 
enraptured at New Hampshire sunsets. How 
glorious they are, to be sure! What a pity the 
sun does not sometimes set in Massachusetts ! 
As a musician the olive-back is certainly in- 
ferior to the hermit, and, according to my taste, 
he is surpassed also by the wood thrush and the 
Wilson; but he is a magnificent singer, for all 
that, and when he is heard in the absence of 
the others it is often hard to believe that any 
one of them could do better. A good idea of the 
rhythm and length of his song may be gained 
by pronouncing somewhat rapidly the words, 
**T love, I love, I love you,” or, as it sometimes 
runs, “I love, I love, I love you truly.” How 
literal this translation is I am not scholar 
enough to determine, but without question it 
gives the sense substantially. 
The winter wrens were less numerous than 
the thrushes, I think, but, like them, they sang 
at all hours of the day, and seemed to be well 
distributed throughout the woods. We can 
hardly help asking how it is that two birds so 
very closely related as the house wren and the 
