144 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



for my convenience, I notice that the three- 

 toothed five-finger — a mountain lover, if 

 there ever was one — is in bud, and the 

 blueberry in blossom. The myrtle warbler 

 sings by the hour, a soft, dreamy trill, a 

 sound of pure contentment ; and two red- 

 eyed vireos, one here, one there, preach with 

 equal persistency. They have taken the 

 same text, I think, and it might have been 

 made for them : " Precept upon precept, 

 precept upon precept ; line upon line, line 

 upon line ; here a little and there a little." 

 Right or wrong, the warbler's lullaby is 

 more to my taste than the vireos' exhortar 

 tion. A magnolia warbler, out of sight 

 among the evergreens, is making an after- 

 noon of it likewise. His song is a mere no- 

 thing ; hardly to be called a " line ; " but if 

 all the people who have nothing extraordi- 

 nary to say were to hold their peace, what 

 would ears be good for? The race might 

 become deaf, as races of fish have gone 

 blind through living in caverns. 



These are exactly such birds as one might 

 have expected to find here. And the same 

 may be said of a Swainson thrush and a 



