AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 167 



Ah! at last. Not all the birds have left us, after all. I feel all the 

 more glad to see these. — A party of Juncos, with a sharp "tsip" fly 

 from a patch of dry weeds across a bushy hillside. 



III. 



Louisiana Waterthrush. — I never think of this bird without remem- 

 bering that day in early May when I first made my acquaintance with 

 it. It was in a wild little valley with a mossy stream in the middle. 

 The slopes were heavily clad, — big deciduous trees, such as oak and 

 maple and beech, towered over the bluish pines and hemlocks making 

 the ground below dark and damp. The underbrush was thick. 



One side of the hill was quite covered with the bluish three-branched, 

 leaves of the hepatica. Everything had a delightfully damp, cool, 

 woodsy smell. Though the meadows a half mile away may have been, 

 drying under a hot sun, it was quite different here; a few silver spots 

 alone found their way through the dense foliage. Not many birds 

 haunt such woods, though as I looked up I saw a few warblers flitting 

 about among the tree-tops, and heard a woodpecker tatooing on a dead, 

 limb. Then I saw a wagtail. The white line over the eye told me it. 

 was a Louisiana Waterthrush. I soon saw his mate. They were 

 busily searching along the stream, continually uttering a metallic 

 "chip." In a few minutes they had disappeared behind a turn in the 

 stream. Suddenly I heard the most glorious, wild, ringing notes. 

 Hurrying in the direction from which the song came, I soon found that 

 it was indeed the Water-thrush. There he was, his whole soul poured 

 into the song, all animation. Several high, flute-like notes, loud and 

 clear, then a rapid scale, running down. The notes left me quite de- 

 lighted. 



IV. 



Vesper Sparrow. — "The Poet of the Fields." With the song — rather 

 than the singer — I once more am in the meadows on a still evening of 

 July. The sun has just sunk behind the western hills, leaving in its 

 place a gorgeous mass of fire. Over this rise banks of clouds not so 

 brilliant, then others still lighter, almost Flamingo-colored. Overhead 

 are a collection of soft sheep-clouds, almost translucent. The eastern 

 sky seems a greenish-purple by comparison. The fields towards the 

 west reflect the magnificence of the sky, those towards the east are a. 

 soft bluish green. On one side is a large bluish belt of woodland, then 

 a field of rye, and beyond a snug little farmhouse. All a picture of 

 calm. The evening is one of those peaceful ones when everything is 

 at harmony. And from a pasture on one side come those rich notes,, 

 so eloquent, so beautiful, so at peace with all, they win my heart at 

 once. 



