WARBLER SUNDAY. 171 



a handsome golden-olive male motionless on the 

 lower limb of a pine, I crept close to him and lay 

 on the fragrant needles watching him. For ten 

 minutes neither he nor a chickadee in the next 

 tree moved a feather. Then I whistled a gentle 

 trill. The pine warbler stirred and listened. 

 Then he tipped back his head, slightly opened 

 his tiny beak and his throat trembled as the 

 notes rolled evenly out. His notes roll : those 

 of a chipping sparrow, which to the unpracticed 

 ear are indistinguishable, are better indicated by 

 a line of zigzags. 



About one o'clock I crossed the Assabet and 

 climbed a hill overlooking it and Boon Pond 

 which empties into it. A strong breeze came like 

 a benediction to make my lunch refreshing. 

 Beyond the pond and the nearer hills I saw 

 Nobscot Hill as many miles to the southeast of 

 me in Stow, as it had been west of me in Way- 

 land. Southward on a ridge was Marlborough. 

 Northward in a hollow was Maynard, with its 

 factory chimneys. There seemed, to be some 

 comfortable farming land in Stow, and that 

 nearest us, and adjoining Honeypot Hill, 

 which, by the way, looked very insignificant 

 from my nameless hill, which I liked because no 

 one had advised me to climb it was well 

 ploughed, harrowed, and sown, and flanked by 

 orchards and nurseries. On this cool hill-top 



