MAY. 103 



and enthusiasm should thrill to the very finger-tips of 

 every one who, on the morning of the month's first day, 

 hears the thrush, grosbeak, oriole, and a host of warblers 

 as they greet the rising sun. And rest assured, dear 

 startled reader, that unless you are astir before the sun 

 is fairly above the horizon you will never know what 

 bird-music really is. It is not alone the mingled voices 

 of a dozen sweet songsters; for the melody needs the 

 dewy dawn, the half-opened flowers, the odor-laden breeze 

 that is languid from very sweetness, and a canopy of 

 misty, rosy-tinted cloud, to blend them to a harmonious 

 whole, and so faintly foreshadow what a perfected world 

 may be. 



I spent a portion of May, 1887, in a mountainous 

 region, for I longed to test the truthfulness of the claim 

 that there only could I hear the choicest songsters at their 

 best. Forgive me, home woods and native fields, for I 

 must confess to its truth. 



Beaching my destination at night, I gave little heed to 

 my surroundings then, and can only testify to the power 

 of the mountain whip-poor-wills to break the slumbers of 

 the soundest sleeper. A half-score, at least, of these 

 strange birds seemed to be perched upon my window-sill, 

 if, indeed, not in the room itself ; and not until dawn did 

 they cease, except to draw breath, their shrill discordant 

 cry. I certainly had these birds at their best, and it was 

 an instance where too great familiarity bred contempt. It 

 is a trite saying that there is no accounting for tastes, but 

 it is hard to believe that whip-poor-wills really enjoy the 

 sound of their own voices. Did noise, like light, attract 

 insects, then, indeed, they would not be as they now are, 

 mysterious by reason of their song. 



Early the next morning I chose the lake as my best 

 point for general observation. And such a day ! 



