ZERO BIRDS 37 
but when it hopped to a low twig and then raised 
its tail stiffly as I watched, I recognized the hermit 
thrush, which always betrays itself by this curious 
mannerism. The last one I had seen was singing like 
Israfel, in the twilight of a Canadian forest. To-day 
the little singer was silent, and I wondered what had 
kept him back from the southland, and hoped that 
he would be able to win through the bitter days still 
ahead of him. I have no doubt that he did, for the 
hermit thrush is a brave-hearted, hardy, self-reliant 
bird. 
The sun had gone down before we finally reached 
the road. Above the after-glow showed a patch of 
apple-green sky against which was etched the faint- 
est, finest, and newest of crescent moons. It almost 
seemed as if a puff of wind would blow her like a 
cobweb out of the sky. Above gleamed Venus, the 
evening star, all silver-gold; while over toward the 
other side of the sky, great golden Jupiter echoed 
back her rays. Below the green, the sky was a mass 
of dusky gold which deepened into amber and then 
slowly faded. As we walked home through the twi- 
light, we heard the last, sweetest, and saddest singer 
of that winter day. Through the air shuddered a 
soft tremolo call, like the whistling of swift, unseen 
wings or the wail of a little lost child. It was the 
eerie call of the little screech-owl — and never was 
a bird worse named. Answering, I brought him so 
close to us that we could see his ear-tufts showing 
in the half-light. All the way home he followed us, 
calling and calling for some one who will never come. 
