You do not see him; you cannot find him; but you know he is there.

And his singing is wild, and shy, and mystical.

Often it haunts you like the memory of some former happiness.

That day I heard the vireo singing....
I don't know how long I lay there under the tree in the meadow, but presently I heard, from no great distance, the sound of a church-bell.
It was ringing for the afternoon service which among the farmers of this part of the country often takes the place, in summer, of both morning and evening services.
"I believe I'll go," I said, thinking first of all, I confess, of the interesting people I might meet there.
But when I sat up and looked about me the desire faded, and rummaging in my bag I came across my tin whistle.

Immediately I began practising a tune called "Sweet Afton," which I had learned when a boy; and, as I played, my mood changed swiftly, and I began to smile at myself as a tragically serious person, and to think of pat phrases with which to characterize the execrableness of my attempts upon the tin whistle.