IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, 81 



accepted, they would every one of them take 

 to hiding like bashful children. 



The white-throat is one of the birds for 

 whom I cherish a special liking. On my first 

 trip to the mountains I jumped off the train for 

 a moment at Bartlett, and had hardly touched 

 the ground before I heard his familiar call. 

 Here, then, was Mr. Peabody at home. Season 

 after season he had camped near me in Massa- 

 chusetts, and many a time I had been gladdened 

 by his lively serenade ; now he greeted me from 

 his own native woods. So far as my observa- 

 tions have gone, he is common throughout the 

 mountain region ; and that in spite of the 

 standard guide-book, which puts him down as 

 patronizing the Glen House almost exclusively. 

 He knows the routes too well to need any guide, 

 however, and may be excused for his ignorance 

 of the official programme. It is wonderful how 

 shy he is, the more wonderful, because, dur- 

 ing his migrations, his manner is so very differ- 

 ent. Then, even in a city park you may watch 

 him at your leisure, while his loud, clear whis- 

 tle is often to be heard rising above a din of 

 horse-cars and heavy wagons. But here, in his 

 summer quarters, you will listen to his song a 

 hundred times before you once catch a glimpse 

 of the singer. At first thought it seems strange 

 that a bird should be most at home when he is 

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