A DISAPPOINTING SEARCH. 261 



lover of him also. But the "shy and hidden" 

 bird, the hermit, enthroned by those who know 

 him far above the others, I had rarely seen and 

 never clearly heard. Far-off snatches I had 

 gathered, a few of the louder notes had reached 

 me from distant woods, or from far up the moun- 

 tain side ; but I had never been satisfied. 



There appeared almost a fatality about my 

 hearing this bird. No matter how common his 

 song in the neighborhood, 110 sooner did I go 

 there than he retired to the secluded recesses of 

 his choice. He always had " just been singing," 

 but had mysteriously stopped. My search was 

 much longer than, and quite as disappointing 

 as Mr. Burroughs 's search through English lanes 

 for a singing nightingale. 



Last spring one of the strongest attractions 

 that drew me to a lovely spot in Northern New 

 York was the assurance that the hermit was a 

 constant visitor. I went, and the same old 

 story met me. Before this year the hermit had 

 always been with them. The song of the veery 

 was my morning and evening inspiration, but 

 his shy brother had apparently taken his depar- 

 ture for parts unknown. 



"We will go to Sunset Hill," said my friend. 

 "We always hear them there at sunset." 



That evening after an early tea, we started for 

 the promised land. The single-file procession 



