DRAGON’S BLOOD 227 
bird. Wherefore let no ornithologist vaunt himself. 
He may be able to distinguish between the song of 
the purple finch and the warbling vireo, or the chest- 
nut-sided warbler, the redstart, and the yellow warb- 
ler, and then hear some common bird, like the Mary- 
land yellow-throat, sing a song which he has never 
heard before and may never hear again; or an oven 
bird, or even a pheebe, rise to the ecstasy of a flight- 
song which no more resembles their everyday meas- 
ure than water resembles wine. 
Early in my experience as a bird-student, I learned 
to walk humbly. It happened on this wise. I had 
been invited to spend my summer at a Sanitarium 
for Deserted Husbands. Said retreat was main- 
tained by a noble-hearted benefactor in a vast, 
rambling cool house, bordered on three sides by dense 
woods. The day of my arrival I was approached by 
one of the older inmates, who, with false and flatter- 
ing tongue, praised my scanty knowledge of bird- 
ways, and made me promise to teach him the different 
bird-songs as he heard them from the house. 
Early the next morning, as I lay in bed, there 
sounded a strange song. It seemed to come from a 
tree at the other end of the house and possessed a 
peculiar rippling, gurgling timbre. A minute or so 
later my new acquaintance rushed in and seemed 
much pained that I did not know the singer. There- 
after my life was burdened by that song. Occasion- 
ally it sounded in the early morning, when I wanted 
to sleep but was awakened by my enthusiastic 
disciple. Another time I would hear it in the evening. 
