108 A GREEN MOUNTAIN CORN-FIELD. 



man's approach. Up to a certain point, 

 civilization is a blessing, even to birds. 

 Beyond a certain point, for aught I know, 

 it may be nothing but a curse, even to 

 men. 



Here, then, I sat, now taken up with the 

 beautiful landscape, and anon turning my 

 head to behold some fowl of the* air. I 

 might have mused with Emerson, 



" Knows he who tills this lonely field, 



To reap its scanty corn, 

 What mystic fruit his acres yield 

 At midnight and at morn," 



only "mystic fruit" would have been 

 rather too high-sounding a phrase for my 

 commonplace cogitations. Hermit thrushes, 

 olive -backed thrushes, and veeries, with 

 sundry warblers and a scarlet tanager, sang 

 in chorus from the woods behind me, while 

 in front bluebirds, robins, song sparrows, 

 vesper sparrows, and chippers were doing 

 their best to transform this fresh Vermont 

 clearing into a time-worn Massachusetts 

 pasture; assisted meanwhile by a goldfinch 

 who flew over my head with an ecstatic 

 burst of melody, and a linnet who fell to 

 warbling with characteristic fluency from 



