MAKING A "SMUDGE" 277 



thralled to bird-song while enveloped in a 

 cloud of smoke. 



" Making a smudge is a lost art," said my 

 host ; but I could not agree with him, for he 

 made a grand one, such as required a Maine 

 guide of years' experience to produce, one 

 that would throw out its protecting clouds 

 two or three hours without renewal. Some 

 mysterious combination in a deep tin pail, 

 brightly burning, then smothered by a mass 

 of green leaves and fern ferns, alas ! hold- 

 ing most tenaciously to life, and therefore 

 making the most lasting smudge. 



The woodpeckers were not the only inter- 

 esting residents of the woods, nor the thrushes 

 the only singers. The scarlet tanager some- 

 times favored us with a sight of his brilliant 

 livery and the sound of his halting, some- 

 what hoarse song ; purple finches visited us 

 with their sweet warbling strains ; and a 

 winter wren bless him ! came frequently 

 with his witching notes. 



The wren had a nest I suppose it was 

 he, for I heard no other of his kind on an 

 upright beam against a house or " camp " a 

 little farther up the lake. It was like the 



