a nest, a mere depression in the ground, and one sorry-looking
youngster, the sole survivor of the perils of the situation. Over that
one nestling they were as concerned as the proverbial hen with one
chicken, and they flitted about in distress while I looked at their
half-fledged bantling, and hoped it was a singer to ring the delightful
silver-toned tremolo that had charmed me that morning.

That evening, listening on the piazza to the usual twilight chorus, the
wood-thrush far-off, the towhee from the pasture, the robins all around,
I heard suddenly the "quee-o" of a bird I knew, so near that I started,
and my eyes fell directly upon him, standing on the lowest limb of a
dead tree, not ten feet from me.

He was so near I did not need my glass, nor indeed did I dare move a
finger, lest he take flight. Several times he uttered his soft call, and
then, while my eyes were fastened upon him, he began quivering with
excitement, his wings lifted a little, and in a clear though low tone
he uttered the long-sought song. I held my breath, and he repeated it,
each time lower than before. Even at that distance it sounded far off,
and doubtless many times in the woods, when I looked for it afar, it may
have been over my head.

A long time--how long I cannot guess--that beautiful bird sat and sang
his witching evening hymn, while I listened spellbound.

It was the tawny thrush,--the veery.

X.

THE VEERY MOTHER.

My next interview with the veery family took place the following June,
at the foot of Mount Greylock, in Massachusetts. I had just returned
from a walk down the meadow, put on wrapper and slippers, and
established myself by the window to write some letters. Pen, ink, paper,
and all the accessories were spread out before me. I dipped my pen in
the ink and wrote "My Dear," when a sound fell upon my ears: it was the
cry of a young bird! it was new to me! it had a veery ring!

Away went my good resolutions, and my pen with them; papers flew to
right and left; hither and thither scattered the letters I had meant to
answer. I snatched my glass, seized my hat as I passed, and was
outdoors. In the open air the call sounded louder, and plainly came from
the borders of the brook that with its fringe of trees divides the yard
from the pasture beyond. It was a two-syllabled utterance like "quee
wee," but it had the intermitted or tremolo sound that distinguishes the
song of the tawny thrush from others. I could locat