AT NATURAL BRIDGE 247 



dias, but in that light there was no telling 

 of colors. It was a ghostly procession, so 

 silent and unexpected, worthy of the place 

 and of the hour. I was beginning to feel 

 at home. A wood thrush sang for me as I 

 continued my course to the hotel, and my 

 spirit sang with him. " I 'm glad I am 

 alive," my pencil wrote of its own accord at 

 the end of the day's jottings. 



I woke the next morning to the lively 

 music of a whippoorwill, the same, I 

 suppose, that had sung me to sleep the even- 

 ing before. He performed that service faith- 

 fully as long as I remained at the Bridge, 

 and always to my unmixed satisfaction. 

 Whippoorwills are among my best birds, 

 and of recent years I have had too little of 

 them. Immediately after breakfast I must 

 go again to the roadside wood, and then to 

 Buck Hill, as a dog must go again to bark 

 under a tree up which he has once driven a 

 cat or a squirrel. But there is no duplicat- 

 ing of experiences. The birds the flocks 

 of travelers were not there. Chats were 

 calling ceow, ceow, with the true country- 

 man's twang ; and what was much better, a 

 Swainson thrush was singing. Better still, 



