A DAY'S DRIVE IN THREE STATES 23 



voices, to my regret rather than to my sur- 

 prise, were every one familiar, and the single 

 unexpected thing about it all was the dearth 

 of northern species. The date was May 6, 

 and the woods might properly enough have 

 been alive with homeward-bound migrants ; 

 but the only bird that I could positively rank 

 under that head was a Swainson thrush, — 

 a free-hearted singer, whose cheery White 

 Mountain tune I never hear at the South 

 without an inward refreshment. From the 

 evergreens, none too common, and mostly 

 too far from the road, came the voices of a 

 pine warbler and one or two black-throated 

 greens ; and once, as we skirted a bushy hill- 

 side, I caught the sliding ditty of a prairie 

 warbler. Here, too, I think it was that I 

 heard the distinctive, loquacious call of a 

 summer tanager, — four happy chances, as 

 but for them, and the single gnatcatcher by 

 the half way house gate, my vacation bird 

 list would have been shorter by five species. 

 After all, the principal ornithological 

 event of the forenoon was, not the singing 

 of the Swainson thrush, but the discovery of 

 a humming-bird's nest. This happened on 

 the side of Stumphouse Mountain. I had 



