the traveler is going somewhere, as I seldom was, he is continually stopping by the way.  Now a shady spot entices him to put down his umbrella,—­for there is a shady spot, here and there, even in a Florida pine-wood; or blossoms are to be plucked; or a butterfly, some gorgeous and nameless creature, brightens the wood as it passes; or a bird is singing; or an eagle is soaring far overhead, and must be watched out of sight; or a buzzard, with upturned wings, floats suspiciously near the wanderer, as if with sinister intent (buzzard shadows are a regular feature of the flat-wood landscape, just as cloud shadows are in a mountainous country); or a snake lies stretched out in the sun,—­a “whip snake,” perhaps, that frightens the unwary stroller by the amazing swiftness with which it runs away from him; or some strange invisible insect is making uncanny noises in the underbrush.  One of my recollections of the railway woods at St. Augustine is of a cricket, or locust, or something else,—­I never saw it,—­that amused me often with a formless rattling or drumming sound.  I could think of nothing but a boy’s first lesson upon the bones, the rhythm of the beats was so comically mistimed and bungled.

One fine morning,—­it was the 18th of February,—­I had gone down the railroad a little farther than usual, attracted by the encouraging appearance of a swampy patch of rather large deciduous trees.  Some of them, I remember, were red maples, already full of handsome, high-colored fruit.  As I drew near, I heard indistinctly from among them what might have been the song of a black-throated green warbler, a bird that would have made a valued addition to my Florida list, especially at that early date.[1] No sooner was the song repeated, however, than I saw that I had been deceived; it was something I had never heard before.  But it certainly had much of the black-throated green’s quality, and without question was the note of a warbler of some kind.  What a shame if the bird should give me the slip!  Meanwhile, it kept on singing at brief intervals, and was not so far away but that, with my glass, I should be well able to make it out, if only I could once get my eyes on it.  That was the difficulty.  Something stirred among the branches.  Yes, a yellow-throated warbler (Dendroica dominica), a bird of which I had seen my first specimens, all of them silent, during the last eight days.  Probably he was the singer.  I hoped so, at any rate.  That would be an ideal case of a beautiful bird with a song to match.  I kept him under my glass, and presently the strain was repeated, but not by him.  Then it ceased, and I was none the wiser.  Perhaps I never should be.  It was indeed a shame.  Such a taking song; so simple, and yet so pretty, and so thoroughly distinctive.  I wrote it down thus:  tee-koi, tee-koo,—­two couplets, the first syllable of each a little emphasized and dwelt upon, not drawled, and a little higher in pitch than its fellow.  Perhaps it might be expressed thus:—­