The ferns drip with cold water, the moss glows and invisible dissonances ring out in the redwood-tethered fog. The harmony is strange, and there is no melody: the chords are isolated and enisled in a ...

SEVERAL years ago, while reading in an old number of the Atlantic Monthly an admirable description by Wilson Flagg of the song of the hermit thrush, I came upon the following sentence : “ I have not ...

I was visiting a friend up in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire, and right outside the window, about 20 feet up in a hop hornbeam tree, was a nest with two parents busily feeding and sitting on babies. The ...

In a lush woodland with trees painted all shades of green and ponds of glass, a hermit thrush sang her song every day, from dawn to dusk. Her song sounded like wind chimes blowing gently in the crisp ...