74 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



he launches into the air with a sort of sus- 

 pended, hovering flight, like certain of the 

 finches, and bursts into a perfect ecstasy of 

 song, clear, ringing, copious, rivalling the 

 goldfinch's in vivacity, and the linnet's in 

 melody. This strain is one of the rarest 

 bits of bird-melody to be heard, and is 

 oftenest indulged in late in the afternoon 

 or after sundown. Over the woods, hid 

 from view, the ecstatic singer warbles his 

 finest strain. In this song you instantly 

 detect his relationship to the water-wag- 

 tail, erroneously called water-thrush, 

 whose song is likewise a sudden burst, full 

 and ringing, and with a tone of youthful 

 joyousness in it, as if the bird had just had 

 some unexpected good fortune. For nearly 

 two years this strain of the pretty walker 

 was little more than a disembodied voice to 

 me, and I was puzzled by it as Thoreau by 

 his mysterious night-warbler, which, by the 

 way, I suspect was no new bird at all, but 

 one he was otherwise familiar with. The 

 little bird himself seems disposed to keep 

 the matter a secret, and improves every op- 

 portunity to repeat before you his shrill, ac- 

 celerating lay, as if this were quite enough 

 and all he laid claim to. Still, I trust I 



