158 IN BIRD LAND. 
che-ha-p-e-e-r-r-r / repeated at brief intervals loudly 
and vigorously, but without variation. ‘The bird had 
a white superciliary line, brownish-barred wings, and 
whitish under parts. A consultation of all the man- 
uals in my possession fails to solve the problem. 
In a deep gorge, cut through the country by a 
small creek — small now, at least —on its way to 
the river, two curious bird calls were heard ; but one 
bird kept himself hidden in a dense thicket, and the 
other bolted into the dark woods that covered a 
steep acclivity. The first bird sang rather than 
called, and the words he said sounded quite dis- 
tinct: Che-o-wade'Ul-wade l-chip /—a sentiment that 
he repeated again and again. 
In spite of these disappointments my jaunt through 
this ravine was exceedingly pleasant,— so delightfully 
quiet and solitary; not a human sound to disturb 
the sacredness of the place; nothing but the songs 
and calls of wild birds. 
“?T was one of those charmed days 
When the genius of God doth flow ; 
The wind may alter twenty ways, 
A tempest cannot blow: 
It may blow north, it still is warm ; 
Or south, it still is clear ; 
Or east, it smells like a clover-farm ; 
Or west, no thunder fear.” 
In one of the loneliest parts of the ravine there 
appeared on the scene my first Louisiana water- 
thrush, often called the large-billed wagtail. ‘There 
it stood “ teetering ” on a spray or a rock, or skim- 
ming through the shallow water, its speckled breast 
