104 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



thougli the bird is not a " game bird," and 

 tbe man is not a gunner. At first, to be 

 sure, tlie question seemed in a fair way to be 

 quickly settled. I was hardly in the swamp 

 before I heard the expected zee-zee. The 

 bird was still here ! But after haH a dozen 

 repetitions of the strain he fell silent ; and 

 he had not shown himself. For a full hour 

 I paced up and down the path, within a space 

 of forty rods, fighting mosquitoes and awake 

 to every sound. If the bird was here, I 

 meant to make sure of him. This was the 

 tenth day since I had first seen him, and to 

 find him still present woidd make it practi- 

 cally certam that he was here for the season. 

 As for what I had already heard, — well, the 

 notes were the Cape May's, fast enough; 

 but if that were all, I should go away and 

 straightway begin to question whether my 

 ears had not deceived me. In matters of 

 this kind, an ornithologist walks by sight. 



Once, from farther up the path, I heard a 

 voice that might be the one I was listening 

 for ; but as I hastened toward it, it developed 

 into the homely, twisting song of a black-and- 

 white creeper. Heard at a suSicient dis- 



