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Robin never heard the Nightingale, but those who have, say that it is the surroundings and its continuous night singing that make it even the equal of our Hermit; for, while the Nightingales sing in numbers in the moonlit groves, the Hermit tunes his lute sometimes in inaccessible solitudes, and there is something immaterial and immortal about the song. Presently you cease altogether to associate it with a bird, and it inspires a kindred feeling in every one who hears it.

Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller tells delightfully of her pursuit of the Hermit in northern New York, where it was said to be abundant, but when she looked for him, he had always "been there" and was gone; until one day in August she saw the bird and heard the song and exclaims: "This only was lacking This crowns my summer."

Among many local names this bird has received, that given by the early settlers in the Adirondack region is the most appropriate; they call it the Swamp Angel.