SPRING 113 



wood thrush's voice from the dense maple 

 woods above me. There was no time to look 

 for him; and happily there was no need. 

 He was one of the consummate artists of his 

 race (among the members of which there is 

 great unevenness in this regard), possessing 

 all those unmistakable peculiarities which at 

 once distinguish the wood thrush's song from 

 the hermit's, with which alone a careless lis- 

 tener might confound it: the sudden drop 

 to a deep contralto (the most glorious bit of 

 vocalism to be heard in our woods), and the 

 tinkle or spray of bell-like tones at the other 

 extreme of the gamut. As with the Cape 

 May, so with him, the question was, Will he 

 stay? 



Two days later I came down the track 

 again. A hermit was in tune, and presently 

 a wood thrush joined him. " His tone is 

 fuller and louder than the hermit's," says 

 my pencil, — flattered, no doubt, at finding 

 itself in a position to speak a word of mo- 

 mentary positiveness touching a question of 

 superiority long in dispute, and likely to re- 

 main in dispute while birds sing and men 

 listen to them. A quarter of a mile farther. 



