THE DEAD TREE'S DAY. 
99 
song sparrow gave a sharp squeak, and then, 
so still was the air, I heard the heavy stamping 
of my horse in his stable, a quarter of a mile 
away, as he gained his feet after a long night’s 
rest. The stars were growing paler moment 
by moment, and outlines becoming sharper in 
the bushes and trees near me. A Swainson’s 
thrush uttered its clear “quick” expressive of 
much more vigilance than the cries of the veery 
and the hermit, yet less fault-finding than the 
mew of the catbird. 
I settled myself comfortably amid the bushes 
eastward of the dead trees, near enough to them 
to see even a humming-bird if one alighted on 
the bare branches. At 4.35 I had heard eight 
kinds of birds, yet the crows, notorious for 
early rising, had not spoken. A minute later 
one cawed sleepily among the eastern pines 
where the mist lay thickest, and soon a dozen 
voices responded. Dense as was the fog, the 
light of day made swift inroads upon the shad¬ 
ows, and when, about quarter to five, a young 
chestnut-sided warbler came out of a dewy bush 
near me, its colors were plainly distinguishable. 
The little bird looked sleepy and dull. It 
moved languidly, and so did three Maryland 
yellow-throats which appeared from the same 
clump of thick bushes a moment later. As yet 
no bird of the day had sung. 
