to 
THE AUDUBON BULLETIN 
Finally awakened, I go to the window and look across the Pacolet 
Valley. Dawn is approaching and Mt. Tryon is indistinctly outlined in the 
distance. Cardinals are joining the chorus of the wood thrushes. At home 
in Evanston, Illinois, the robins will be singing at this hour, but their song 
is missing here. 
6:40 A.M.—Stepping outside, I start down the wooded hill. A light 
wind is rustling through the pine trees where the myrtle and pine warblers 
are busily searching for food. Red-eyed vireos are calling, and down by 
the barn at the foot of the hill the little bird with the big song, the Carolina 
wren, is calling to his mate. I refer to my watch and find that he sings 
fourteen times a minute. One wonders how he can carry on with such 
energy for a half-hour at a time with only brief pauses. 
Now the pileated woodpecker that started with a tentative, experi- 
mental hammering is really “bearing down.” From the sound alone one 
can appreciate the speed and power of his blows. I run for the dead tree 
on which he is working but he is gone before I can see him. 
A cardinal singing in the top of a dogwood tree makes a striking 
picture against the solid mass of white. Cardinals are almost as common 
here as robins are in the North, which is a bit provoking as I hope to see 
a summer tanager and, therefore, must not ignore any fiash of red. A more 
definite outline of the mountain is emerging through the haze, and as I 
watch it a turkey vulture without apparent effort is soaring high in the sky. 
Across the ravine there is a colorful blanket of azaleas in full bloom. 
Near me stands a trillium two and a half feet high, with a blossom nearly 
as large as my hand, and crowfoot violets are blooming among the sweet 
gum pods and pine needles. I see other flowers with which I am not familiar 
and a chapter on Nature by John Cowper Powys comes to mind. He says 
whether it is plants, trees, birds, butterflies, or constellations, we must 
know ‘at least their ordinary popular, English or local names” to fully 
enjoy them. This is unquestionably true, and I regret that I have so little 
of the botanical knowledge of such men as Donald Culross Peattie, who, 
incidentally, has lived here and no doubt has tramped many times over 
these same hills and through the ravines between them. 
8:30 A.M.—Down in the valley, after a second breakfast, I start across 
the meadow speculating upon what birds I shall see in the open fields. 
There may be chipping sparrows and field sparrows—yes, I hear one of 
their little trilling songs now; perhaps a kingbird and a sparrow hawk, and 
along the bank of the creek there is sure to be a song sparrow. 
For more than an hour I have been sitting on an old rustic bridge over 
the little Pacolet River where there are thickets covered with honeysuckle 
on both banks. I have seen or heard all the birds I expected, and many 
others I did not think of, including a pair of bob-whites, one of which is 
pouring out his cheerful call from the edge of the woods. A Maryland 
yellow-throat is also singing, and redstarts and warblers are darting about 
while a kingfisher patrols the stream with his rattling call. 
As I leave the bridge I stop beside a tulip tree and examine one of its 
exquisite blossoms. The tree does not have the dramatic appearance of the 
dogwoods or the paulownias because its blossoms are obscured by the 
