rently in sullen mood. I could not tell
whether they croaked "Nevermore!" or not.

Down the mountain side I clambered, occasionally picking a beautiful
blossom from the many brilliant-hued clusters and inhaling its
fragrance. Indeed, sometimes the breeze was laden with the aroma of
these flowers, and in places the slope looked like a cultivated garden.
The only birds seen that afternoon above timber-line were those already
mentioned. What do the birds find to eat in these treeless and shrubless
altitudes? There are many flies, some grasshoppers, bumble-bees,
beetles, and other insects, even in these arctic regions, dwelling among
the rocks and in the short grass below them watered by the melting
snows.

At about half-past four in the afternoon I reached the timber-line,
indicated by a few small, scattering pines and many thick clumps of
bushes. Suddenly a loud, melodious song brought me to a standstill. It
came from the bushes at the side of the trail. Although I turned aside
and sought diligently, I could not find the shy lyrist. Another song of
the same kind soon reached me from a distance. Farther down the path a
white-crowned sparrow appeared, courting his mate. With crown-feathers
and head and tail erect, he would glide to the top of a stone, then down
into the grass where his lady-love sat; up and down, up and down he
scuttled again and again. My approach put an end to the picturesque
little comedy. The lady scurried away into hiding, while the little
prince with the snow-white diadem mounted to the top of a bush and
whistled the very strain that had surprised me so a little while before,
farther up the slope. Yes, I had stumbled into the summer home of the
white-crowned sparrow, which on the Atlantic coast and the central
portions of the American continent breeds far in the North.

It was not long before I was regaled with a white-crown vesper concert.
From every part of the lonely valley the voices sounded. And what did
they say? "Oh, de-e-e-ar, de-e-ar, Whittier, Whittier," sometimes
adding, in low, caressing tones, "Dear Whittier"--one of the most
melodious tributes to the Quaker poet I have ever heard. Here I also saw
my first mountain bluebird, whose back and breast are wholly blue, there
being no rufous at all in his plumage. He was feeding a youngster
somewhere among the snags. A red-shafted flicker flew across the vale
and called, "Zwick-ah! zwick-ah!" and then pealed out his loud call just
like the ea