144 FRESH FIELDS 



season in the same locality, some favorite spot in 

 the woods, or at the head of a sheltered valley, that 

 possesses attraction for many kinds. I found such 

 a place one summer by a small mountain lake, in 

 the southern Catskills, just over the farm borders, 

 in the edge of the primitive forest. The lake was 

 surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded steeps, 

 except a short space on one side where there was an 

 old abandoned clearing, grown up to saplings and 

 brush. Birds love to be near water, and I think 

 they like a good auditorium, love an open space 

 like that of a small lake in the woods, where their 

 voices can have room and their songs reverberate. 

 Certain it is they liked this place, and early in 

 the morning especially, say from half past three to 

 half past four, there was such a burst of melody as 

 I had never before heard. The most prominent 

 voices were those of the wood thrush, veery thrush, 

 rose-breasted grosbeak, winter wren, and one of the 

 vireos, and occasionally at evening that of the her- 

 mit, though far off in the dusky background, — birds 

 all notable for their pure melody, except that of 

 the vireo, which was cheery, rather than melodious. 

 A singular song that of this particular vireo, — 

 " Cheery, cheery, cheery drunk ! Cheery drunk ! " 

 — all day long in the trees above our tent. The 

 wood thrush was the most abundant, and the purity 

 and eloquence of its strain, or of their mingled 

 strains, heard in the cool dewy morning from across 

 that translucent sheet of water, was indeed memo- 

 rable. Its liquid and serene melody was in such 



