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chat. He, too, was in the secret, and had been for a good while. "Pretty nice birds," his verdict was. And at a later visit a man with his dog suddenly appeared. "Handsome, aren't they?" he began, by way of good-morning. He had seen one of them as long ago as when snow was on the ground, but he didn't discover the nest. He was looking in the wrong place. Since then he had spent hours in watching the birds, and believed that he could tell the female's voice from the male's. "There!" said he; "that's the mother's call." He was acquainted with all the birds, and could name them all, he said, simply by their notes; and he told me many things about them. There were grosbeaks here. Did I know them? And tanagers, also. Did I know them? And another bird that he was especially fond of; a beautiful singer, though it never sang after the early part of the season; the indigo-bird, its name was. Did I know that?

As will readily be imagined, we had a good session (one doesn't fall in with so congenial a spirit every day in the week), though it ran a little too exclusively to questions and