STALKING THE WILD GRAPE 



Now the bird went away for a dis- 

 tance, again he came back, but always 

 he kept up his call, while the thrush 

 never wavered from his perch in the 

 birch. A dozen times I waked in the 

 night to find them still at it, and when 

 the gray of dawn finally silenced the 

 whip-poor-will, the thrush let out like 

 a tenor that has just got his second 

 wind. He sang up the dawn and the 

 grand matutinal bird chorus, and the 

 last I heard of him he was still sitting 

 on his perch greeting the gold of the 

 morning sun with melodious uproar. 



A blind man who knows the pasture 

 should know what part of it he is in 

 and the pasture people that are about 

 him of a June morning simply by the 

 use of his other senses. The birds he 

 would know by sound, the shrubs and 

 trees by smell. Each has its distinctive 



