THE HERMIT THRUSH 59 



ing the explosive barking of a red squirrel 

 and the plaintive cry of the wood pewee. 

 It became so lonely that I would have 

 paid cash down for the merry, inquisitive 

 chatter of one chick-a-dee. I was just 

 ready to give up and start for home, when 

 I caught coming from the depths of the 

 woods a contralto phrase — certainly it was 

 Dulcet's voice! This one phrase seemed 

 to open his habit, for he flew to the edge 

 of the woods below me and sang several 

 phrases; then he flew to the tree nearest 

 me, a large silver birch, and there, almost 

 directly above my head, he sang, with a 

 pause now and then, for more than a 

 quarter of an hour. At the end of the 

 song he flew to the ground and kept run- 

 ning among the ferns, repeating that 

 peculiar chuck which one ornithologist 

 has named the "call of migration." In 

 the dark I followed this call as well as I 

 could through the tangle, until I heard 

 it sound as if the thrush had stopped be- 

 hind a large brushheap. Here I made 



