A QUIET MORNING 215 



am in the valley I shall hear the alder fly- 

 catcher, and when, braving the mosquitoes, 

 I venture into the tamarack swamp a little 

 way to look at the Cape May warbler (I 

 know the very spot) I shall doubtless hear 

 the yellow-belly. These, with the kingbird 

 and the phoebe, which are about all the 

 farms, make the full New Hampshire con- 

 tingent. No doubt there are flies enough 

 for all of them. 



As I start to leave the grove, stepping 

 over beds of round-leaved violets and spring 

 beauties, both out of flower already, I start 

 at the sound of an unmusical note, which I 

 do not immediately recognize, but which in 

 another instant I settle upon as a sapsucker's. 

 This is a bird at whose absence my compan- 

 ion and I have frequently expressed sur- 

 prise, remembering how common we have 

 found him in previous visits. I go in pur- 

 suit at once, and presently come upon him. 

 He is in extremely bright plumage, his 

 crown and his throat blood red. He goes 

 down straightway as No. 81. I am having 

 a prosperous day. Three new names within 

 half an hour ! Idling in a sugar orchard 



