ZERO BIRDS 37 



but when it hopped to a low twig and then raised 

 its tail stiffly as I watched, I recognized the hermit 

 thrush, which always betrays itself by this curious 

 mannerism. The last one I had seen was singing like 

 Israfel, in the twilight of a Canadian forest. To-day 

 the little singer was silent, and I wondered what had 

 kept him back from the southland, and hoped that 

 he would be able to win through the bitter days still 

 ahead of him. I have no doubt that he did, for the 

 hermit thrush is a brave-hearted, hardy, self-reliant 

 bird. 



The sun had gone down before we finally reached 

 the road. Above the after-glow showed a patch of 

 apple-green sky against which was etched the faint- 

 est, finest, and newest of crescent moons. It almost 

 seemed as if a puff of wind would blow her like a 

 cobweb out of the sky. Above gleamed Venus, the 

 evening star, all silver-gold; while over toward the 

 other side of the sky, great golden Jupiter echoed 

 back her rays. Below the green, the sky was a mass 

 of dusky gold which deepened into amber and then 

 slowly faded. As we walked home through the twi- 

 light, we heard the last, sweetest, and saddest singer 

 of that winter day. Through the air shuddered a 

 soft tremolo call, like the whistling of swift, unseen 

 wings or the wail of a little lost child. It was the 

 eerie call of the little screech-owl — and never was 

 a bird worse named. Answering, I brought him so 

 close to us that we could see his ear-tufts showing 

 in the half-light. All the way home he followed us, 

 calling and calling for some one who will never come. 



