FTVE DAYS ON MOUNT MANSFIELD. 95 



characteristic northern songster, himself 

 such a lover of mountains as never to be 

 heard, here in New England, at least, and 

 in summer-time, except amid the dwindling 

 spruce forests of the upper slopes. I have 

 never before seen him so familiar. On the 

 Mount Washington range and on Mount 

 Lafayette it is easy enough to hear his 

 music, but one rarely gets more than a fly- 

 ing glimpse of the bird. Here, as I say, Ije 

 was never out of hearing, and seldom long 

 out of sight, even from the door-step. The 

 young were already leaving the nest, and un- 

 doubtedly the birds had disposed themselves 

 for the season before the unpainted, inoffen- 

 sive-looking little hotel showed any signs of 

 occupancy. The very next year a friend of 

 mine visited the place and could discover no 

 trace of them. They had found their human 

 neighbors a vexation, perhaps, and on re- 

 turning from their winter's sojourn in Costa 

 Eica, or where not, had sought summer 

 quarters on some less trodden peak. 



Not so was it with the myrtle warblers, I 

 venture, to assert, though on this point I 

 have never taken my friend's testimony. 

 Perfectly at home as they are in the wildest 



