pages of rhapsody from poets and prose writers, yet to
him who has not drunk of the enchantment, they would be but words; they
would touch no chord that had not already been thrilled by the marvelous
strain itself.

My first acquaintance in the beautiful family was the wood-thrush, and
the study of his charms of voice and character filled me with love for
the whole bird tribe. He frequented the places I also preferred, the
quiet nooks and out of the way corners of a large city park. At that
time I thought no bird note on earth could equal his; but a year or two
later, on the shore of Lake George, I fell under the magical sway of
another voice, whose few notes were exceedingly simple in arrangement,
but full of the strangely thrilling power characteristic of the thrush
family.

Four years passed, at first in search of the owner of the "wandering
voice" that had bewitched me, and when I had found it to be the tawny
thrush or veery, in study of the attractive singer himself, which made
me an enthusiastic lover of him also. But the "shy and hidden" bird,
the hermit, enthroned by those who know him far above the others, I had
rarely seen and never clearly heard. Far-off snatches I had gathered, a
few of the louder notes had reached me from distant woods, or from far
up the mountain side; but I had never been satisfied.

There appeared almost a fatality about my hearing this bird. No matter
how common his song in the neighborhood, no sooner did I go there than
he retired to the secluded recesses of his choice. He always had "just
been singing," but had mysteriously stopped. My search was much longer
than, and quite as disappointing as Mr. Burroughs's search through
English lanes for a singing nightingale.

Last spring one of the strongest attractions that drew me to a lovely
spot in Northern New York was the assurance that the hermit was a
constant visitor. I went, and the same old story met me. Before this
year the hermit had always been with them. The song of the veery was my
morning and evening inspiration, but his shy brother had apparently
taken his departure for parts unknown.

"We will go to Sunset Hill," said my friend. "We always hear them there
at sunset."

That evening after an early tea, we started for the promised land. The
single-file procession through the charming wood paths consisted of our
host as protector on the return in the dark, the big dog--his mistress's
body-guard--his mistress, an enthusiasti