days of
love and peace, now separated from him by years of bitter sorrow. It
was a little bird that opened the door into those golden days. The two
incongruous figures were sitting, as usual, in the wide, dark doorway.
In front lay the shining water, in its feathery willow frame, and still
rosy with the last faint radiance of the sunset. As the pond slowly
paled to a mirror-like crystal, the moon, round and golden, rose up
from the darkness of the Drowned Lands. It sent a silver shaft down
into the shadowy ravine, and a gleam from the brook answered. Just as
its light came stealing on through the willowy fringe to touch the
waters of the pond there arose, from the dark grove opposite the mill,
a rapturous song.

"What's that?" cried Tim, in startled joy.

"A catbird," answered John McIntyre.

"Oh, say! That's the little beggar that was meyowing jist now, ain't
it?"

"Yes."

"Billy Winters always said it was a wildcat, and was scarder'n a
rabbit. Hello! There he goes again! Say! ain't he a little corker,
though? Did you ever hear him before?"

"Yes."

"Any other place than here?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Far away."

"Where you uster live 'fore you came here?"

"Yes."

"Were there Canada birds an' blue jays there, too?"

"Yes."

"Any other kinds?"

"Yes."

"What were they?"

The man's face betokened a deep pain and reluctance. He sat for a
moment, staring ahead, and then answered in a hushed tone, "There was
one they called the hermit thrush."

"The hermit thrush," repeated Tim. "I've never sawn him. What does he
say?"

"He says," began the man dreamily, "he says--'Oh'----" He stopped, as
though afraid of what he had done. "I--I forget what he said," he
added confusedly.

"Do you?" The boy's tone was disappointed. "Mebby if you think hard
you'll remember it," he added encouragingly. "What color was it?"

"Brown."

"Did it sing like a robin?"

"No."

"Can't you remember one little, teenty speck of it?" incredulously.

"No."

"Aw, think hard. That's what the Dook tells me in school, and then it
comes to me. Ole Mother Cummins uster lambaste me with a stick when I
forgot things, but she jist walloped it all out of me. The Dook gives
me a whackin' sometimes, too, but she can't lick for sour apples
'longside o' ole Mother Cummins. What did ye say was the bird's name?"

"The hermit thrush."

"Doesn't it ever sing here?"

"I don't think so, I've never heard it."

"