I S 8 IN BIRD LAND. 



che-ha-p-e-e-r-r-r I repeated at brief intervals loudly 

 and vigorously, but without variation. The bird had 

 a white superciliary line, brownish- barred wings, and 

 whitish under parts. A consultation of all the man- 

 uals in my possession fails to solve the problem. 



In a deep gorge, cut through the country by a 

 small creek — small now, at least — on its way to 

 the river, two curious bird calls were heard ; but one 

 bird kept himself hidden in a dense thicket, and the 

 other bolted into the dark woods that covered a 

 steep acclivity. The first bird sang rather than 

 called, and the words he said sounded quite dis- 

 tinct : Clie-o-wadeHl-wadeUl-chip ! — a sentiment that 

 he repeated again and again. 



In spite of these disappointments my jaunt through 

 this ravine was exceedingly pleasant, — so delightfully 

 quiet and solitary ; not a human sound to disturb 

 the sacredness of the place ; nothing but the songs 

 and calls of wild birds. 



" 'T was one of those charmed days 



When the genius of God doth flow ; 

 The wind may alter twenty ways, 



A tempest cannot blow : 

 It may blow north, it still is warm ; 



Or south, it still is clear ; 

 Or east, it smells like a clover-farm ; 



Or west, no thunder fear." 



In one of the loneliest parts of the ravine there 

 appeared on the scene my first Louisiana water- 

 thrush, often called the large-billed wagtail. There 

 it stood " teetering " on a spray or a rock, or skim- 

 ming through the shallow water, its speckled breast 



