Then I made haste to seek out an obscure spot, where I could sit and
wait in silence, to see who might unwittingly show himself.

I was never lonely, and never tired; for if--as sometimes happened--no
flit of wing came near to interest me, there before me was beautiful
Cheyenne, with its changing face never twice alike, and its undying
associations with its poet and lover, whose lonely grave makes it
forever sacred to those who loved her. There, too, was the wonderful sky
of Colorado, so blue it looked almost violet, and near at hand the
"Singing Water," whose stirring music was always inspiring.

One morning I was startled from my reverie by a sudden cry, so loud and
clear that I turned quickly to see what manner of bird had uttered it.
The voice was peculiar and entirely new to me. First came a scolding
note like that of an oriole, then the "chack" of a blackbird, and next a
sweet, clear whistle, one following the other rapidly and vehemently, as
if the performer intended to display all his accomplishments in a
breath. Cheyenne vanished like "the magic mountain of a dream," blue
skies were forgotten, the babbling brook unheard, every sense was
instantly alert to see that extraordinary bird,--

"Like a poet hidden,
Singing songs unbidden."

But he did not appear. Not a leaf rustled, not a twig bent, though the
strange medley kept on for fifteen minutes, then ceased as abruptly as
it had begun, and not a whisper more could be heard. The whole thing
seemed uncanny. Was it a bird at all, or a mere "wandering voice"? It
seemed to come from a piece of rather swampy ground, overgrown with
clumps of willow and low shrubs; but what bird of earthly mould could
come and go, and make no sign that a close student of bird ways could
detect? Did he creep on the ground? Did he vanish into thin air?

Hours went by. I could not go, and my leafy nook was "struck through
with slanted shafts of afternoon" before I reluctantly gave up that I
should not see my enchanter that day, and slowly left the grove, the
mystery unexplained.

Very early the next morning I was saluted by the same loud, clear calls
near the house. Had then the Invisible followed me home? I sprang up and
hurried to the always open window. The voice was very near; but I could
not see its author, though I was hidden behind blinds.

This time the bird--if bird it were--indulged in a fuller _repertoire_.
I seized pencil and paper, and noted down phonetically the di