262 VIRGINIA 



had told me a few years before. " When 

 you hear a song that is like the blackpoll's, 

 but different," he had said, " look the bird 

 up. It will most likely be a Cape May." 

 He was one of the lucky men (almost the 

 only one of my acquaintance) who had heard 

 that rare warbler's voice. I turned aside, of 

 course, and made a cautious entry among the 

 pines. The bird continued its singing. Yes, 

 it was like the blackpoll's, but with a zip 

 rather than a zee. Nearer and nearer I crept, 

 inch by inch. If the fellow were a Cape 

 May, it would be carelessness inexcusable 

 not to make sure of the fact. And soon I 

 had my glass upon him, in high plumage, 

 red cheeks and all. He had not been dis- 

 turbed in the least, and kept up his music 

 till I had had my fill and could stay no 

 longer, all the while in low branches and 

 in clear view. Few songs could be less in- 

 teresting in themselves, but few could have 

 been more welcome, for the better part of 

 twenty years I had been listening for it: 

 about five notes, a little louder and more 

 emphatic than the blackpoll's, it seemed to 

 me, but still faint and, as I expressed it to 

 myself, " next to nothing." The handsome 



