When a musicologist friend of mine from Manhattan came to the Adirondacks for a long weekend, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and exclaimed, loudly enough for me to cringe when I heard him, “Beethoven’s Fifth!” I looked around in vain for a symphony orchestra that might have magically materialized on Hull’s Falls Road, in Keene, and then studied the face of my guest, which looked entirely baffled.
“Did you hear that bird sing?” he asked, loudly, aggressively.
“Of course,” I answered, “I’m a birdwatcher, and listener.”
“What the (expletive deleted) bird was that?” he asked.
“A song sparrow,” I noted, “you have them in Manhattan, very common.”
He looked me in the eyes with a very steady, very serious stare and said, matter-of-factly, “Do you realize the first…