AT NATURAL BRIDGE 223 



at last all but intolerable, a turbulent Ver- 

 mont stream (a branch of Wait's River) 

 became to me, some years ago, as it followed 

 my road persistently mile after mile in the 

 course of a May vacation. One gets on the 

 track of the smaller birds through hearing 

 their faint calls in the bushes and treetops ; 

 and how was I to catch such indispensable 

 signals with this everlasting uproar in my 

 ears ? So it was here in Cedar Creek ravine ; 

 it would have to be a pretty loud voice to be 

 heard above the din of the hurrying water. 

 And the birds, on their side, had something 

 of the same difficulty ; or so I judged from 

 the unconventional behavior of a blue yellow- 

 backed warbler that flitted through the 

 hanging branches of a tree within a few 

 inches of my hat, having plainly no suspicion 

 of a human being's proximity. The tufted 

 titmouse could be heard, of course. He 

 would make a first-rate auctioneer, it seemed 

 to me, with his penetrating, indefatigable 

 voice and his genius for repetition. Now 

 and then, too, I caught the sharp, sermoniz- 

 ing tones of a red-eyed vireo. Once an oven- 

 bird near me mounted a tree hastily, branch 

 by branch, and threw himself from the top 



