164 A WEEK ON WALDEN'S BIDGE. 



his praise of the " exquisitely sweet and 

 expressive voice." Here, as in Florida, I 

 was interested to perceive how instantly the 

 bird's appearance and carriage distinguished 

 it from its Northern relative, although the 

 descriptions of the two species, as given in 

 books, sound confusingly alike. It is mat- 

 ter for thankfulness, perhaps, that language 

 is not yet so all-expressive as to render 

 individual eyesight superfluous. 



I kept on to the Brow, and some time 

 afterward was at Mabbitt's Spring, quench- 

 ing my thirst with a draught of liquid iron 

 rust, when a third songster of the same kind 

 struck up his tune. The spring, spurting 

 out of the rock in a slender jet, is beside the 

 same stream — Little Falling Water — that 

 makes through the swamp; and along its 

 banks, it appeared, the water-thrushes were 

 at home. I was glad to have heard the 

 famous singer, but my satisfaction was not 

 without alloy. Walden, after all, had failed 

 to show me a new bird, though it had given 

 me a new song. 



The most fatiguing, and perhaps the most 

 interesting of my days on the Ridge was 

 the one day in which I did not travel on 



