156 A WEEK ON WALDEWS RIDGE. 



Chattanooga gentleman had assured me that 

 the principal crops were blackberries and 

 rabbits), and almost before I knew it, was 

 in the same delightful woods that had wel- 

 comed me wherever I had gone. And in 

 the same woods the same birds were singing. 

 My notes make particular record of hooded 

 and Kentucky warblers, these being two of 

 my newer acquaintances, as well as two of 

 the commoner Ridge songsters ; but I halted 

 for some time, and with even a livelier inter- 

 est, to listen to an old friend (no acquaint- 

 ance, if you please), a black - throated 

 green warbler. It was one of the queerest 

 of songs : a bar of five or six notes, uniform 

 in pitch, and then at once, in perfect form 

 and voice, the voice being a main part of 

 the music in the case of this warbler, 

 the familiar trees, trees, murmuring trees. 

 Where could the fellow have picked up such 

 a ditty? No doubt there was some story 

 connected with it. Nothing is born of itself. 

 A dozen years ago, in the Green Mountains, 

 at Bread-Loaf Inn, I heard from the 

 forest by the roadside a song utterly strange, 

 and hastened in search of its author. After 

 much furtive approach and diligent scanning 



