RED LEAF DAYS 193 



pileated woodpecker's a flicker's resonant 

 hi, hi, in a fuller and clearer tone ; and one 

 of the most welcome voices was that of an 

 olive-backed thrush. We were strolling past 

 a roadside tangle of shrubbery when some 

 unseen bird close by us began to warble con- 

 fusedly (I was going to say autumnally, this 

 kind of formless improvisation being so char- 

 acteristic of the autumnal season), in a 

 barely audible voice. My first thought was 

 of a song sparrow ; but that could hardly be, 

 and I looked at my companion to see what 

 he would suggest. He was in doubt also. 

 Then, all at once, in the midst of the vocal 

 jumble, our ears caught a familiar strain. 

 " Yes, yes," said I, " a Swainson thrush," 

 and I fell to whistling the tune softly for the 

 benefit of the performer, whom I fancied, 

 rightly or wrongly, to be a youngster at his 

 practice. Young or old, the echo seemed 

 not to put him out, and we stood still again 

 to enjoy the lesson ; disconnected, unrelated 

 notes, and then, of a sudden, the regular 

 Swainson measure. I had not heard it be- 

 fore since the May migration. 



Every bird season has peculiarities of its 



