72 THE QUEST OF A THRUSH 



and strikingly like a man's whistle to his 

 dog. Instantly the young one flew out of 

 the tree over my head, and joined his par- 

 ents, and all flew away. 



Besides this I had already discovered that 

 mountains are not desirable for bird-study 

 at least for mine. There is too much 

 weather. When it was not raining it blew a 

 gale, before which birds were silent, and so 

 far as possible, invisible. 



Here ends my search for the witching 

 thrush, I said, I shall seek him no more. 

 I took leave of the mountains, storms, and 

 caterpillars, and betook myself to a quiet 

 nook beside the sea, intending to confine my 

 attention to warblers and white-throat spar- 

 rows, and other birds I had seen there be- 

 fore. 



THE NEST AT LAST 

 THE THIRD YEAR 



When was ever a bird-lover known finally 

 to abandon a search so long as the faintest 

 hope remained ! I knew where the olive- 

 backed thrush did live, and the next year 



