THE HERMIT OF THE WOOD. 



could see him as plainly as the chipbird we had heard 

 trilling an hour ago. 



Like most gifted souls, he is very plain in his at- 

 tire. But four fifths of an inch longer than the song 

 sparrow, with a dusky brown back reddening towards 

 the tail, he showed a marked yellow ring around the 

 eye as his most striking characteristic. His speckled 

 breast was partly turned from us. He let us survey 

 him a minute or two, then flew to the edge of the wood 

 where he continued to fill the air with his silvery 

 chimes for more than a quarter of an hour. 



I never hear this song without regretting that it 

 has not been fitly celebrated in verse. Lowell has 

 immortalized the bobolink and J. T. Trowbridge, the 

 wood pewee. Emerson has written of the song spar- 

 row and the chickadee. Celia Thaxter has sung of 

 the sandpiper and the wild sea fowl; and nearly all 

 our poets have incidental references to the oriole, the 

 red-winged blackbird, the veery, the goldfinch and 

 other typical American birds. Browning has a fa- 

 mous couplet about the thrush, but not the hermit, for 

 his notes are too spiritual to be called a "fine, careless 

 rapture. ' y 



If the lamented Richard Hovey had lived, perhaps 



