nary
mountain tourist. Every man who is known among his acquaintances to have
a little knowledge of such things is approached now and then with the
question, "What bird was it, Mr. So-and-So, that I heard singing up in
the mountains? I didn't see him; he was always ever so far off; but his
voice was wonderful, so sweet and clear and loud!" As a rule it may
safely be taken for granted that such interrogatories refer either to
the Swainson thrush or to the hermit. The inquirer is very likely
disposed to be incredulous when he is told that there are birds in his
own woods whose voice is so like that of his admired New Hampshire
songster that, if he were to hear the two together, he would not at
first be able to tell the one from the other. He has never heard them,
he protests; which is true enough, for he never goes into the woods of
his own town, or, if by chance he does, he leaves his ears behind him in
the shop. His case is not peculiar. Men and women gaze enraptured at New
Hampshire sunsets. How glorious they are, to be sure! What a pity the
sun does not sometimes set in Massachusetts!

As a musician the olive-back is certainly inferior to the hermit, and,
according to my taste, he is surpassed also by the wood thrush and the
Wilson; but he is a magnificent singer, for all that, and when he is
heard in the absence of the others it is often hard to believe that any
one of them could do better. A good idea of the rhythm and length of his
song may be gained by pronouncing somewhat rapidly the words, "I love, I
love, I love you," or, as it sometimes runs, "I love, I love, I love you
truly." How literal this translation is I am not scholar enough to
determine, but without question it gives the sense substantially.

The winter wrens were less numerous than the thrushes, I think, but,
like them, they sang at all hours of the day, and seemed to be well
distributed throughout the woods. We can hardly help asking how it is
that two birds so very closely related as the house wren and the winter
wren should have been chosen haunts so extremely diverse,--the one
preferring door-yards in thickly settled villages, the other keeping
strictly to the wildest of all wild places. But whatever the
explanation, we need not wish the fact itself different. Comparatively
few ever hear the winter wren's song, to be sure (for you will hardly
get it from a hotel piazza), but it is not the less enjoyed on that
account. There is such a thing as a