230 EVERYDAY ADVENTURES 
were traveling through amethyst masses of rhodora 
and woods white with the shad-blow. At last the 
apple orchards were not yet in flower, and for the 
third time that year we found ourselves among the 
cherry blossoms. 
We never stopped until we reached a lonely bay 
far to the north. The sun was westering well down 
the sky when at last we crowded into a creaking 
buckboard for a ten-mile drive. The air was full of 
strange bird-songs. From the fields came a little 
song that began like a feeble song sparrow and 
ended in a buzz. It was the Savannah sparrow, 
which I had seen every year in migration, but had 
never before heard sing. At the first bend in the 
road we came to a bit of marshland so full of unknown 
bird-notes that we stopped to explore. From the 
edge of the sphagnum bog came a loud explosive 
song — “Chip, chip, chippy, chippy, chippy, chippy!”’ 
The singer was a greenish-colored bird, light under- 
neath, with a white line through the eye, and looked 
much like a red-eyed vireo except that it had a warb- 
ler beak, the which it opened to a surprising width 
as it sang. It was none other than the Tennessee 
warbler, so rare a bird in my part of the world that 
even to see one in migration was then an event. 
Here it was one of the commonest birds of that 
whole region. 
Then I stalked a strange vireo-song, something 
like the monotonous notes of the red-eyed vireo, 
but softer and with a different cadence. I finally 
found the singer in a little thicket, and studied it 
