58 THE MOUNTAINS 



when we first missed, in the early morn- 

 ing, the martial whistle of the white- 

 throated sparrow I Then there were days 

 when, on a long tramp, I did not hear 

 a warbler, not even a redstart, or a Mary- 

 land yellow-throat; and I would return 

 home pleased even to find a red-eyed vireo 

 preaching his repetitious sermon high up 

 in a rock maple. Worst of all, toward 

 the end of July, there were unmistakable 

 signs that the hermit thrush was begin- 

 ning to think of the Gulf of Mexico ; for 

 he would make long pauses, or fly long 

 distances between fragments of song, or 

 leave phrase after phrase unfinished, or 

 omit his late afternoon song altogether. 



Fully realizing the dubiousness of the 

 situation, yet I decided to make a serious 

 effort to hear Dulcet once more. So Mon- 

 day evening (as I have said, it was August 

 10) I went to the clearing. I sat on the 

 same old bowlder, waiting until it was so 

 dark I could not see my notebook. Not a 

 sound came from the three woods, except- 



