46 THE MOUNTAINS 



of every phrase. Inasmuch as this thrush, 

 unlike our wood thrush in New Jersey, is 

 extremely shy, has a gift for securing pri- 

 vacy and has also the weird arts of a ven- 

 triloquist, it is ofttimes a laborious matter 

 to locate him, and then closely to approach 

 him, and then to keep him unaware of 

 your presence. A snap of a twig, a clumsy 

 shifting of position, or a moment's labored 

 breathing, and there is a sudden silence, a 

 silence so emptying that it verily "leaves 

 a hole in the woods." Perfectly to hear a 

 hermit thrush I have worked harder than 

 ever I did to climb a mountain. I have 

 crawled through long tangles of under- 

 brush, or patches of wild raspberry 

 bushes, until I was dripping like a larch 

 in the rain; then I have lain on the ground 

 as flat as an Indian "when he listens to 

 hear the grasses grow" — all this effort to 

 hear a dozen complete phrases woven to- 

 gether in the bird's peculiar manner. But 

 what does a man care for sweat and 

 scratches and wet garments and aching 



