58 NEW HAMPSHIKE 



variations, all in his most rapturous June man- 

 ner. Why the fellow should have been in any- 

 thing like an ecstasy at that precise moment is 

 quite beyond my guessing. Possibly it would be 

 equally beyond his, if he were to stop to think 

 about it. Some sudden stirring of memory, per- 

 haps. Natural beings seldom know just why 

 they are happy. I recall the fact, unthought of 

 till now, that I have not heard a yellow-throat 

 sing before for several weeks, though I have 

 seen the birds often. They are among the late 

 stayers, and at this season have a more or less 

 lonesome look, being commonly found not as 

 members of a flock or family, after the manner 

 of autumnal warblers in general, but here and 

 there one, dodging about in a roadside thicket, 

 or peeping out curiously at a casual passer-by. 



Just as I am remarking upon the imusual 

 silence my ear catches in the far distance the 

 song of a white-throated sparrow. So very far 

 off it is that the sound barely reaches me. In- 

 deed, I do not so much hear it as become vaguely 

 conscious that I should hear it if the bird were 

 ever so little nearer. Yet I am sure he sang — 

 as sure as if I had seen him. Probably experi- 

 enced readers will divine what I mean, although 

 I seem unable to express it. 



The road is bordered with the dead tops of 



