VI. 



IN SEARCH OF THE BLUEJAY. 



"THE grass grows up to the front door, and 

 the forest comes down to the back; it 's the end 

 of the road, and the woods are full of bluejays." 



Such was the siren song that lured me to a 

 certain nook on the side of the highest mountain 

 in Massachusetts one June. The country was 

 gloriously green and fresh and young, as if it 

 had just been created. From my window I 

 looked down the valley beginning between Grey- 

 lock and Ragged Mountain, and winding around 

 other and (to me) nameless hills till lost in the 

 distance, apparently cut square off by what looked 

 like an unbroken chain from east to west. The 

 heavy forests which covered the hills ended in 

 steep grass-covered slopes, with dashing and 

 hurrying mountain brooks between, and, save 

 the road, scarcely a trace of man was seen. 



The birds were already there. The robin 

 came on to the rail fence, and with rain pouring 

 off his sleek coat, bade us "Be cheery ! be 

 cheery ! " the bluebird sat silent and motionless 

 on a fence post; the " veery's clarion " rang out 



