56 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



swamp fringed with sedge hummocks, and over- 

 grown" with brier and arrow-wood. It is the haunt 

 of several kinds of birds, in one of which I am 

 especially interested. 



Drawing near, I hear again the song, which is 

 expressive of alarm ; not an outcry of terror, but a 

 forcible, impetuous note, rather calling to arms for 

 defense. One is reminded at first of the startled 

 note of the wood-thrush, or the cat-bird in some of 

 his fantastic moods. 



Chip-cher-we-e-e-er ! blows the bugler, among the 

 leaves of a young white birch. Notwithstanding 

 his clear and vehement challenge he takes precious 

 care to hide himself. 



For a while he is silent, during which I move 

 cautiously, on hands and knees, to a position from 

 where every interstice of leaf and twig is closely 

 examined ; but still no signs of the bird. It is a 

 game of hide-and-seek, in which the singer has 

 thus far the advantage. 



Just as the would-be interviewer is about to 

 relieve his cramped limbs, the bugle is sounded 

 again from an arrow-wood bush some yards 

 away. 



How the musician got there without being 

 observed, is a mystery. Yet there he is, piping as 

 loudly as ever, but this time on a different key as if 

 another kind of tactics was to be adopted — chum- 

 we-e-e-er-cJm-wIiich ! a solo full of trills, quavers 



