One early October morning I lay on the hard-packed ground, longing for the sun to rise. I had slept here all night long that I might see the birds at dawn. Deceived by the warmth of the previous day, I had not brought enough blankets and was therefore exceedingly uncomfortable in the cold breeze.

At the foot of the hill upon which stood my camp, there was a spring-fed pond. Dammed at one end, it comfortably filled the head of a small valley. Leading from it was a broad, grassy tidal flat that receded from the visible Long Island Sound. To shore birds this marshy place was an ideal feeding spot.

Over the dark, motionless surface of the lake there floated a fog bank, suspended about twenty feet from the surface. More vapor was slowly growing into a gigantic mushroom.

As I watched this increasing filmy mantle, I saw first one and then another gray shape pass into it and disappear, only to emerge again at some other point and vanish in the darkness of the oak-lined shore. At first I could not imagine what these ghost-like shapes were, and then, just as I had about decided that they were the result of a freakish wind playing with stray cloudlets, there came a gruff “quawk, quawk, quawk,” taken up by one and then another of the shapes until the place echoed with hoarse cries. I realized that the Black-crowned Night Heron was taking his final morning sail preparatory to going to roost in some nearby tree for the day. Like the owl, he preferred the night for his activities.

Gradually the noise subsided as the Herons settled on various branches. The mist above the pond began to disappear, and the small, shapeless clouds far up in the sky took on a suggestion of color. Now was the time to arise. In a very little while the woods would be filled with flying, feeding birds, and the best time of day for bird observation would be at hand. Yet so cold was I that it was impossible to move a limb. Several times, off to one side, a faint-voiced little White-throated Sparrow gave a feeble imitation of his beautiful spring-and-summer song. It was as though his vocal organs had become less pliant through disuse and exposure to the cold.

What a brave little singer he is, even though his efforts are not always equally repaid. I think it is partially what Hudson would call the “human note” that so endears the White-throat’s song to me. There is truly an intimate quality in the first sustained note of his song. But in the final, high and infinitely sweet tones there is a suggestion of a song that is too pure to be voiced by anything that is bound to the earth. Many have been the hot summer days when, tired and pack-weary, I have paused for a moment to rest at some bramble-covered clearing in the deep woods, and that cheery little forest voice of the Peabody bird, coming unexpectedly from some unseen branch, would refresh me as much as a drink at some cool spring. I look forward to his singing from one year to the next.

A massive white oak spread its powerful branches at least one hundred feet above my head. It was a majestic and beautiful living monument to a mighty nature. Some of the topmost limbs seemed to reach up and disappear in the sky, so perfectly did their pale gray bark blend with the early morning light. For some time I listened to the soft rustling of the wind among its myriad drying leaves. Then very subtly from the tree top there came a different sound, which impressed itself upon my consciousness as would the faint perfume of a distant flower bed slowly approached. Gradually it increased until the leafy whispering became almost inaudible, and the air was filled with an indescribable, high-pitched musical breathing. It was as though countless tiny creatures were conversing a great way off.

Turning squarely on my back, I for a moment saw nothing in the leafy midst so far above. As my eyes became more properly focussed, however, they distinguished some small objects of about the same size. My glasses were safely stored in the heel of a large shoe close at hand. Forgetting the chill air, I uncovered my chest and arms long enough to take out the binoculars.

There in the tree top I saw a moving mass of very small birds that were flying from one twig to another with scarcely any pause in their activities. No sooner would one move out of sight than another would come flying into the tree and take his place. The entire gathering was ever going southward. A few of the number came down to the lower branches where their identity could be more readily determined. I realized that I was witnessing the fall migration of a large group of American warblers.

Among the most prominent of the small birds were the female and young Redstarts, who flashed into view many times. The yellow on the outer tail feathers was plainly visible as they sped here and there after any insect that might be about. The Myrtle Warbler, with his four yellow spots on crown, rump, and on each side of his breast, was very largely represented in the tree top. The dainty little Yellow Warbler and the Black-throated Blue were also there. What a multitude they were and what a long fearsome journey they had yet to travel! It would be hard to enumerate all of the various dangers that beset these little birds as they fly mile after mile through the air at night, and more particularly as they rest and feed near the ground during the day.

Even as I watched, a marauding Screech Owl glided overhead on noiseless wings. Instantly the twittering died, only to be recommenced after the Owl had passed quite harmlessly by.

What busy little creatures these birds were! They searched every leaf and let no morsel of food, insect or plant, escape. How well they knew that birds that fly in the night must feast in the daytime. They were with me for about fifteen minutes, and then, as gradually as they had come, so did they pass on until at last not a single one was to be seen.

For some time I lay there trying vainly to warm myself after my warbler exposure. Not a sound was to be heard—even the wind had become silent. Then suddenly there came from not very far a call of “Teacher, Teacher, Teacher, TEACHER.” Never before or since have I heard the “teacher bird” announce himself so late in the season. He was also on his journey southward. His smaller brother warblers took to the tree tops but he, although of the same family, preferred the ground where he might look among the leaves for choice bits of food. This bird is known by a diversity of names. He is called by many the “oven-bird”, due to the Dutch-oven-like structure of his nest; but to me he is, as he was to John Burroughs, the “Teacher Bird.”

When I go off alone into the woods I want some sort of “burglar alarm” to warn me of strangers in camp on windless nights. I resort to a very ancient but effective practice. By gathering many armfuls of dry, dead leaves and piling them all about my tent I feel fairly sure that no prowler can take me by surprise. I had provided myself with just such an alarm on this overnight hike, and was made aware by a slight rustling close to my tent that I had a caller of some kind. For a moment I thought it was a gray squirrel, but then the nature of the noise seemed different and I was puzzled as to who my visitor might be.

In a moment I found out. A most beautiful, clean-cut little Wood Thrush came hopping along before my tent. He looked very cold, and for that reason aroused my sympathy at once. His shapely brown head was tucked down between the shoulder blades as far as possible. So cold was he that he did not even look for food, but with no apparent thought as to direction, moved along evidently just to keep warm. It gave me a mental picture of myself as I would be when I arose. My main object would be to get the fire going so as to keep warm; food would come later.

The Thrush passed out of my sight without having paid any attention to me. I thought him gone for all time; but no, in a moment he reappeared and to my intense delight came stalking straight towards the tent, still in the frozen manner.

Suddenly, I am positive, he saw me. His head was taken from between the shoulders, and every part of the bird seemed instantly on the alert. The contrast was startling. Here was a most active and intelligent creature where before had been one that looked remarkably dull and stupid.

Slowly, and with the utmost caution, he advanced until not more than two feet separated us. There he stopped and literally looked me up and down. Not a sound nor a movement did I make, so fearful was I of frightening my guest away. What a remarkably clean white breast he had, and how distinct were the round black spots with which it was speckled! Here was the woodland brother of the Robin and the Bluebird right where I could put my hand on him. After he had become satisfied that I was harmless and was no more interesting than any of the queer-looking fallen logs or rocks of the forest, he turned his back, rather rudely, and left the tent.

It was then that I arose and went about my fire making. If the birds were so anxious to have me see them that they were forced to come into my tent I could no longer refuse them. A hasty breakfast over, I started off into the woods, glasses in hand, in quest of the birds that were calling.