AT NATURAL BRIDGE 237 



a cerulean warbler. Once in my life I had 

 seen a bird of that species, but only for a 

 minute. If he wore a black breast-band, I 

 did not see it, or else had forgotten it. If 

 I could only have had a look at this fellow's 

 back and wings ! As it was, I was not 

 likely ever to know him, though the printed 

 description would either demolish or add a 

 degree of plausibility to my offhand conjec- 

 ture. 



The better course, after losing a bevy of 

 wanderers in this way, is perhaps to remain 

 where one is and await the arrival of an- 

 other detachment of the migratory host. 

 This advice, or something like it, I seem to 

 remember having read, at aU events ; but I 

 have never schooled myself to such a pitch 

 of quietism. For a time, indeed, I could 

 not believe that the birds were lost, and 

 must hunt the hilltop over in the hope of 

 another chance at them. An empty hope. 

 So I did what I always do : the game hav- 

 ing flown, I took my own departure also. I 

 should not find the same flock again, but 

 with good luck — which now it was easy to 

 expect — I might find another ; and ex- 

 cept for the single mysterious stranger, that 



