nswered, at every pause, by a querulous single note in a higher key.
Every moment or two the instructor would fly out and capture something,
talking all the while, as if to say, "See how easy it is!" but careful
not to give the food to the begging and complaining pupil. No sooner did
the parent alight than the youngster was after him, following him
everywhere he went. After a while the old bird flew away, when that
deceiving little rogue took upon himself the business of fly-catching.
He flew out, snapped his beak, and, returning to his perch, wiped it
carefully. Yet when the elder returned he at once resumed his begging
and crying, as if starved and unable to help himself.

A friend and bird-student, whose home is in these mountains, assures me
that the ph[oe]bes in this vicinity do not confine themselves to the
traditional family cry, but have a really pleasing song, which she has
heard several times. That, then, is another of the supposed songless
birds added to the list of singers. I know both the kingbird and the
wood pewee sing, not, to be sure, in a way to be compared to the
thrushes, though far excelling the utterances of the warblers. But why
are they so shy of exhibiting their talent? Why do they make such a
secret of it? Can it be that they are just developing their musical
abilities?

When we reached the thorn-tree, on that last evening, we seated
ourselves on the bank beside the road, to enjoy the music of the meadow,
and to see the shrike family. At the nest all was still, probably
settled for the night, but the "lord and master" of that snug homestead
stood on a tall maple-tree close by, in dignified silence, watching our
movements, no doubt. We waited some time, but he refused either to go or
to relax his vigilance in the least, till the hour grew late, and we
were obliged to turn back.

The sun had set, and the sky was filled, as on that first evening, with
soft, rosy sunset clouds, and the distant mountains, with Jay Peak for a
crown, were clothed in gorgeous purple again. With all this beauty
before us, we slowly walked back to the village, and I felt it a fitting
close to my delightful if exhausting tramps with an Enthusiast.

II.

A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

My first sight of the little stranger was one morning when returning
from a long stroll in search of a nest of the red-headed woodpecker. It
was not through the woods I had been, as might be expected. I did not
search the dead limbs o