THE LAST TRAMP. 29 



have with care and difficulty guarded myself 

 against, heard in the woods of the neighbor- 

 hood, during that summer's visit, no less than 

 four different songs from the same species of 

 warbler. 



While slowly and weariedly dragging myself 

 back to where our patient horse stood waiting, I 

 fell into meditation on this way of making the 

 study of nature hard work instead of rest and 

 refreshment, and the comparative merits of chas- 

 ing up one's birds and waiting for them to come 

 about one. Without doubt the choice of method 

 is due largely to temperament, but I think it 

 will be found that most of our nature-seers have 

 followed the latter course. 



June was now drawing to an end, and the day 

 of my friend's departure had nearly arrived. 

 One more tramp remained to us. It was a walk 

 up a long, lonely road to a solitary thorn-tree, 

 where I was studying a shrike's nest. 



Just as we left the village a robin burst into 

 song, and this bird, because of certain associa- 

 tions, was the Enthusiast's favorite singer. We 

 paused to listen. When bird music begins to 

 wane, when thrushes have taken their broods 

 afar, and orioles and catbirds are heard no more, 

 one appreciates the hearty philosophy, the cheer- 

 ful and pleasing song, of the robin. It is truly 



