BIRDS IN THE BUSH

by

BRADFORD TORREY

Sixth Edition

BostonHoughton, Mifflin and CompanyNew York: 11 East Seventeenth StreetThe Riverside Press, Cambridge1893

Copyright, 1885, by Bradford TorreyAll rights reserved. 

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 

Wherefore, let me intreat you to read it with favour and attention, andto pardon us, wherein we may seem to come short of some words, which wehave laboured to interpret. 

_The Prologue of the Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach. _

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 ON BOSTON COMMON 1

 BIRD-SONGS 31

 CHARACTER IN FEATHERS 53

 IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 75

 PHILLIDA AND CORIDON 103

 SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE 129

 MINOR SONGSTERS 155

 WINTER BIRDS ABOUT BOSTON 185

 A BIRD-LOVER'S APRIL 211

 AN OWL'S HEAD HOLIDAY 243

 A MONTH'S MUSIC 277

 ON BOSTON COMMON. 

 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels: Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth, the prison unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods 't was pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 

 WORDSWORTH. 

 ON BOSTON COMMON. 

Our Common and Garden are not an ideal field of operations for thestudent of birds. No doubt they are rather straitened and public. Otherthings being equal, a modest ornithologist would prefer a place where hecould stand still and look up without becoming himself a gazing-stock. But "it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps;" and if we areappointed to take our daily exercise in a city park, we shall verylikely find its narrow limits not destitute of some partialcompensations. This, at least, may be depended upon, --ourdisappointments will be on the right side of the account; we shall seemore than we have anticipated rather than less, and so our pleasureswill, as it were, come to us double. I recall, for example, theheightened interest with which I beheld my first Boston cat-bird;standing on the back of one of the seats in the Garden, steadyinghimself with oscillations of his tail, --a conveniently longbalance-pole, --while he peeped curiously down into a geranium bed, within the leafy seclusion of which he presently disappeared. He wasnothing but a cat-bird; if I had seen him in the country I should havepassed him by without a second glance; but here, at the base of theEverett statue, he looked, somehow, like a bird of another feather. Since then, it is true, I have learned that his occasional presence withus in the season of the semi-annual migration is not a matter forastonishment. At that time, however, I was happily more ignorant; andtherefore, as I say, my pleasure was twofold, --the pleasure, that is, ofthe bird's society and of the surprise. 

There are plenty of people, I am aware, who assert that there are nolonger any native birds in our city grounds, --or, at the most, only afew robins. Formerly things were different, they have heard, but now theabominable English sparrows monopolize every nook and corner. These wisepersons speak with an air of positiveness, and doubtless ought to knowwhereof they affirm. Hath not a Bostonian eyes? And doth he not crossthe Common every day? But it is proverbially hard to prove a negative;and some of us, with no thought of being cynical, have ceased to putunqualified trust in other people's eyesight, --especially since we havefound our own to fall a little short of absolute infallibility. My ownvision, by the way, is reasonably good, if I may say so; at any rate Iam not stone-blind. Yet here have I been perambulating the Public Gardenfor an indefinite period, without seeing the first trace of afield-mouse or a shrew. I should have been in excellent company had Ibegun long ago to maintain that no such animals exist within ourprecincts. But the other day a butcher-bird made us a flying call, andalmost the first thing he did was to catch one of these same furrydainties and spit it upon a thorn, where anon I found him devouring it. I would not appear to boast; but really, when I saw what Collurio haddone, it did not so much as occur to me to quarrel with him because hehad discovered in half an hour what I had overlooked for ten years. Onthe contrary I hastened to pay him a heart-felt compliment upon hisindisputable sagacity and keenness as a natural historian;--a measure ofmagnanimity easily enough afforded, since however the shrike might excelme at one point, there could be no question on the whole of myimmeasurable superiority. And I cherish the hope that my fellowtownsmen, who, as they insist, never themselves see any birds whateverin the Garden and Common (their attention being taken up with mattersmore important), may be disposed to exercise a similar forbearancetoward me, when I modestly profess that within the last seven or eightyears I have watched there some thousands of specimens, representing notfar from seventy species. 

Of course the principal part of all the birds to be found in such aplace are transient visitors merely. In the long spring and autumnjourneys it will all the time be happening that more or less of thetravelers alight here for rest and refreshment. Now it is only astraggler or two; now a considerable flock of some one species; and nowa miscellaneous collection of perhaps a dozen sorts. 

One of the first things to strike the observer is the uniformity withwhich such pilgrims arrive during the night. He goes his rounds late inthe afternoon, and there is, no sign of anything unusual; but the nextmorning the grounds are populous, --thrushes, finches, warblers, and whatnot. And as they come in the dark, so also do they go away again. Withrare exceptions you may follow them up never so closely, and they willdo nothing more than fly from tree to tree, or out of one clump ofshrubbery into another. Once in a great while, under some specialprovocation, they threaten a longer flight; but on getting high enoughto see the unbroken array of roofs, on every side they speedily growconfused, and after a few shiftings of their course dive hurriedly intothe nearest tree. It was a mistake their stopping here in the firstplace; but once here, there is nothing for it save to put up with thediscomforts of the situation till after sunset. Then, please heaven, they will be off, praying never to find themselves again in such aBabel. 

That most of our smaller birds migrate by night is by this time too wellestablished to need corroboration; but if the student wishes to assurehimself of the fact at first hand, he may easily do it by one or twoseasons' observations in our Common, --or, I suppose, in any likeinclosure. And if he be blest with an ornithologically educated ear, hemay still further confirm his faith by standing on Beacon Hill in theevening--as I myself have often done--and listening to the _chips_ ofwarblers, or the _tseeps_ of sparrows, as these little wanderers, hourafter hour, pass through the darkness over the city. Why the birdsfollow this plan, what advantages they gain or what perils they avoid bymaking their flight nocturnal, is a question with which our inquisitivefriend will perhaps find greater difficulty. I should be glad, for one, to hear his explanation. 

As a rule, our visitors tarry with us for two or three days; at least Ihave noticed that to be true in many cases where their numbers, orsize, or rarity made it possible to be reasonably certain when thearrival and departure took place; and in so very limited a field it isof course comparatively easy to keep track of the same individual duringhis stay, and, so to speak, become acquainted with him. I remember withinterest several such acquaintanceships. 

One of these was with a yellow-bellied woodpecker, the first I had everseen. He made his appearance one morning in October, along with acompany of chickadees and other birds, and at once took up his quarterson a maple-tree near the Ether monument. I watched his movements forsome time, and at noon, happening to be in the same place again, foundhim still there. And there he remained four days. I went to look at himseveral times daily, and almost always found him either on the maple oron a tulip tree a few yards distant. Without question the sweetness ofmaple sap was known to _Sphyropicus varius_ long before our humanancestors discovered it, and this particular bird, to judge from hisactions, must have been a genuine connoisseur; at all events he seemedto recognize our Boston tree as of a sort not to be met with every day, although to my less critical sense it was nothing but an ordinaryspecimen of the common _Acer dasycarpum_. He was extremely industrious, as is the custom of his family, and paid no attention to the childrenplaying about, or to the men who sat under his tree, with the back oftheir seat resting against the trunk. As for the children's noise, helikely enough enjoyed it; for he is a noisy fellow himself and famous asa drummer. An aged clergyman in Washington told me--in accents halfpathetic, half revengeful--that at a certain time of the year he couldscarcely read his Bible on Sunday mornings, because of the racket whichthis woodpecker made hammering on the tin roof overhead. 

Another of my acquaintances was of a very different type, a femaleMaryland yellow-throat. This lovely creature, a most exquisite, daintybit of bird flesh, was in the Garden all by herself on the 6th ofOctober, when the great majority of her relatives must have been alreadywell on their way toward the sunny South. She appeared to be perfectlycontented, and allowed me to watch her closely, only scolding mildly nowand then when I became too inquisitive. How I did admire her bravery andpeace of mind; feeding so quietly, with that long, lonesome journeybefore her, and the cold weather coming on! No wonder the Great Teacherpointed his lesson of trust with the injunction, "Behold the fowls ofthe air. "

A passenger even worse belated than this warbler was a chipping sparrowthat I found hopping about the edge of the Beacon Street Mall on the 6thof December, seven or eight weeks after all chippers were supposed to besouth of Mason and Dixon's line. Some accident had detained himdoubtless; but he showed no signs of worry or haste, as I walked roundhim, scrutinizing every feather, lest he should be some tree sparrowtraveling in disguise. 

There is not much to attract birds to the Common in the winter, since weoffer them neither evergreens for shelter nor weed patches for agranary. I said to one of the gardeners that I thought it a pity, onthis account, that some of the plants, especially the zinnias andmarigolds, were not left to go to seed. A little untidiness, in so gooda cause, could hardly be taken amiss by even the most fastidioustaxpayer. He replied that it would be of no use; we hadn't any birdsnow, and we shouldn't have any so long as the English sparrows were hereto drive them away. But it would be of use, notwithstanding; andcertainly it would afford a pleasure to many people to see flocks ofgoldfinches, red-poll linnets, tree sparrows, and possibly of thebeautiful snow buntings, feeding in the Garden in midwinter. 

Even as things are, however, the cold season is sure to bring us a fewbutcher-birds. These come on business, and are now welcomed as publicbenefactors, though formerly our sparrow-loving municipal authoritiesthought it their duty to shoot them. They travel singly, as a rule, andsometimes the same bird will be here for several weeks together. Thenyou will have no trouble about finding here and there in the hawthorntrees pleasing evidences of his activity and address. Collurio isbrought up to be in love with his work. In his Mother Goose it iswritten, --

 Fe, fi, fo, farrow! I smell the blood of an English sparrow;

and however long he may live, he never forgets his early training. Hisdays, as the poet says, are "bound each to each by natural piety. " Happylot! wherein duty and conscience go ever hand in hand; for whosepossessor

 "Love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. "

In appearance the shrike resembles the mocking-bird. Indeed, a policemanwhom I found staring at one would have it that he _was_ a mocking-bird. "Don't you _see_ he is? And he's been singing, too. " I had nothing tosay against the singing, since the shrike will often twitter by thehalf hour in the very coldest weather. But further discussion concerningthe bird's identity was soon rendered needless; for, while we weretalking, along came a sparrow, and dropped carelessly into a hawthornbush, right under the shrike's perch. The latter was all attentioninstantly, and, after waiting till the sparrow had moved a little out ofthe thick of the branches, down he pounced. He missed his aim, or thesparrow was too quick for him, and although he made a second swoop, andfollowed that by a hot chase, he speedily came back without his prey. This little exertion, however, seemed to have provoked his appetite;for, instead of resuming his coffee-tree perch, he went into thehawthorn, and began to feed upon the carcass of a bird which, it seemed, he had previously laid up in store. He was soon frightened off for a fewmoments by the approach of a third man, and the policeman improved theopportunity to visit the bush and bring away his breakfast. When thefellow returned and found his table empty, he did not manifest theslightest disappointment (the shrike never does; he is a fatalist, Ithink); but in order to see what he would do, the policeman tossed thebody to him. It lodged on one of the outer twigs, and immediately theshrike came for it; at the same time spreading his beautifully borderedtail and screaming loudly. Whether these demonstrations were intended toexpress delight, or anger, or contempt, I could not judge; but he seizedthe body, carried it back to its old place, drove it again upon thethorn, and proceeded to devour it more voraciously than ever, scatteringthe feathers about in a lively way as he tore it to pieces. The thirdman, who had never before seen such a thing, stepped up within reach ofthe bush, and eyed the performance at his leisure, the shrike notdeigning to mind him in the least. A few mornings later the same birdgave me another and more amusing exhibition of his nonchalance. He wassinging from the top of our one small larch-tree, and I had stopped nearthe bridge to look and listen, when a milkman entered at theCommonwealth Avenue gate, both hands full of cans, and, without noticingthe shrike, walked straight under the tree. Just then, however, he heardthe notes overhead, and, looking up, saw the bird. As if not knowingwhat to make of the creature's assurance, he stared at him for a moment, and then, putting down his load, he seized the trunk with both hands, and gave it a good shake. But the bird only took a fresh hold; and whenthe man let go, and stepped back to look up, there he sat, to allappearance as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. Not to be soeasily beaten, the man grasped the trunk again, and shook it harder thanbefore; and this time Collurio seemed to think the joke had been carriedfar enough, for he took wing, and flew to another part of the Garden. The bravado of the butcher-bird is great, but it is not unlimited. I sawhim, one day, shuffling along a branch in a very nervous, unshrikelyfashion, and was at a loss to account for his unusual demeanor till Icaught sight of a low-flying hawk sweeping over the tree. Everycreature, no matter how brave, has some other creature to be afraid of;otherwise, how would the world get on?

The advent of spring is usually announced during the first week ofMarch, sometimes by the robins, sometimes by the bluebirds. The latter, it should be remarked, are an exception to the rule that our spring andautumn callers arrive and depart in the night. My impression is thattheir migrations are ordinarily accomplished by daylight. At all eventsI have often seen them enter the Common, alight for a few minutes, andthen start off again; while I have never known them to settle down for avisit of two or three days, in the manner of most other species. Thislast peculiarity may be owing to the fact that the European sparrowstreat them with even more than their customary measure of incivility, till the poor wayfarers have literally no rest for the soles of theirfeet. They breed by choice in just such miniature meeting-houses as ourcity fathers have provided so plentifully for their foreign _protégés_;and probably the latter, being aware of this, feel it necessary todiscourage at the outset any idea which these blue-coated Americaninterlopers may have begun to entertain of settling in Boston for thesummer. 

The robins may be said to be abundant with us for more than half theyear; but they are especially numerous for a month or two early in theseason. I have counted more than thirty feeding at once in the lowerhalf of the parade ground, and at nightfall have seen forty at roost inone tree, with half as many more in the tree adjoining. They growextremely noisy about sunset, filling the air with songs, cackles, andscreams, till even the most stolid citizen pauses a moment to look up atthe authors of so much clamor. 

By the middle of March the song sparrows begin to appear, and for amonth after this they furnish delightful music daily. I have heard themcaroling with all cheerfulness in the midst of a driving snow-storm. Thedear little optimists! They never doubt that the sun is on their side. Of necessity they go elsewhere to find nests for themselves, where theymay lay their young; for they build on the ground, and a lawn which ismowed every two or three days would be quite out of the question. 

At the best, a public park is not a favorable spot in which to studybird music. Species that spend the summer here, like the robin, thewarbling vireo, the red-eyed vireo, the chipper, the goldfinch, and theBaltimore oriole, of course sing freely; but the much larger numberwhich merely drop in upon us by the way are busy feeding during theirbrief sojourn, and besides are kept in a state of greater or lessexcitement by the frequent approach of passers-by. Nevertheless, I onceheard a bobolink sing in our Garden (the only one I ever saw there), andonce a brown thrush, although neither was sufficiently at home to dohimself justice. The "Peabody" song of the white-throated sparrows is tobe heard occasionally during both migrations. It is the more welcome insuch a place, because, to my ears at least, it is one of the wildest ofall bird notes; it is among the last to be heard at night in the WhiteMountain woods, as well as one of the last to die away beneath you asyou climb the higher peaks. On the Crawford bridle path, for instance, Iremember that the song of this bird and that of the gray-cheekedthrush[1] were heard all along the ridge from Mount Clinton to MountWashington. The finest bird concert I ever attended in Boston was givenon Monument Hill by a great chorus of fox-colored sparrows, one morningin April. A high wind had been blowing during the night, and the momentI entered the Common I discovered that there had been an extraordinaryarrival of birds, of various species. The parade ground was full ofsnow-birds, while the hill was covered with fox-sparrows, --hundreds ofthem, I thought, and many of them in full song. It was a royal concert, but the audience, I am sorry to say, was small. It is unfortunate, insome aspects of the case, that birds have never learned that a _matinée_ought to begin at two o'clock in the afternoon. 

These sparrows please me by their lordly treatment of their Europeancousins. One in particular, who was holding his ground against three ofthe Britishers, moved me almost to the point of giving him three cheers. 

Of late a few crow blackbirds have taken to building their nests in onecorner of our domain; and they attract at least their full share ofattention, as they strut about the lawns in their glossy clerical suits. One of the gardeners tells me that they sometimes kill the sparrows. Ihope they do. The crow blackbird's attempts at song are ludicrous in theextreme, as every note is cracked, and is accompanied by a ridiculouscaudal gesture. But he is ranked among the oscines, and seems to knowit; and, after all, it is only the common fault of singers not to beable to detect their own want of tunefulness. 

I was once crossing the Common, in the middle of the day, when I wassuddenly arrested by the call of a cuckoo. At the same instant two menpassed me, and I heard one say to the other, "Hear that cuckoo! Do youknow what it means? No? Well, _I_ know what it means: it means that it'sgoing to rain. " It did rain, although not for a number of days, Ibelieve. But probably the cuckoo has adopted the modern method ofpredicting the weather some time in advance. Not very long afterwards Iagain heard this same note on the Common; but it was several yearsbefore I was able to put the cuckoo into my Boston list, as a birdactually seen. Indeed it is not so very easy to see him anywhere; for hemakes a practice of robbing the nests of smaller birds, and is alwaysskulking about from one tree to another, as though he were afraid ofbeing discovered, as no doubt he is. What Wordsworth wrote of theEuropean species (allowance being made for a proper degree of poeticlicense) is equally applicable to ours:--

 "No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. "

When I did finally get a sight of the fellow it was on this wise. As Ientered the Garden, one morning in September, a goldfinch was calling sopersistently and with such anxious emphasis from the large sophora treethat I turned my steps that way to ascertain what could be the trouble. I took the voice for a young bird's, but found instead a male adult, whowas twitching his tail nervously and scolding _phee-phee_, _phee-phee_, at a black-billed cuckoo perched near at hand, in his usual sneakingattitude. The goldfinch called and called, till my patience was nearlyspent. (Small birds know better than to attack a big one so long as thelatter is at rest. ) Then, at last, the cuckoo started off, the finchafter him, and a few minutes later I saw the same flight and chaserepeated. Several other goldfinches were flying about in theneighborhood, but only this one was in the least excited. Doubtless hehad special reasons of his own for dreading the presence of thiscowardly foe. 

One of our regular visitors twice a year is the brown creeper. He is sosmall and silent, and withal his color is so like that of the bark towhich he clings, that I suspect he is seldom noticed even by persons whopass within a few feet of him. But he is not too small to be hectored bythe sparrows, and I have before now been amused at the encounter. Thesparrow catches sight of the creeper, and at once bears down upon him, when the creeper darts to the other side of the tree, and alights againa little further up. The sparrow is after him; but, as he comes dashinground the trunk, he always seems to expect to find the creeper perchedupon some twig, as any other bird would be, and it is only after alittle reconnoitring that he again discovers him clinging to thevertical bole. Then he makes another onset with a similar result; andthese manoeoeuvres are repeated, till the creeper becomes disgusted, and takes to another tree. 

The olive-backed thrushes and the hermits may be looked for every springand autumn, and I have known forty or fifty of the former to be presentat once. The hermits most often travel singly or in pairs, though asmall flock is not so very uncommon. Both species preserve absolutesilence while here; I have watched hundreds of them, without hearing somuch as an alarm note. They are far from being pugnacious, but theirsense of personal dignity is large, and once in a while, when thesparrows pester them beyond endurance, they assume the offensive withmuch spirit. There are none of our feathered guests whom I am gladder tosee; the sight of them inevitably fills me with remembrances of happyvacation seasons among the hills of New Hampshire. If only they wouldsing on the Common as they do in those northern woods! The whole citywould come out to hear them. 

During every migration large numbers of warblers visit us. I have notedthe golden-crowned thrush, the small-billed water-thrush, theblack-and-white creeper, the Maryland yellow-throat, the blueyellow-back, the black-throated green, the black-throated blue, theyellow-rump, the summer yellow-bird, the black-poll, the Canadaflycatcher, and the redstart. No doubt the list is far from complete, as, of course, I have not used either glass or gun; and without one orother of these aids the observer must be content to let many of thesesmall, tree-top-haunting birds pass unidentified. The two kinglets giveus a call occasionally, and in the late summer and early autumn thehumming-birds spend several weeks about our flower-beds. 

It would be hard for the latter to find a more agreeable stopping-placein the whole course of their southward journey. What could they askbetter than beds of tuberoses, Japanese lilies, _Nicotiana_ (against theuse of which they manifest not the slightest scruple), petunias, and thelike? Having in mind the Duke of Argyll's assertion that "no bird canever fly backwards, "[2] I have more than once watched thesehumming-birds at their work on purpose to see whether they would respectthe noble Scotchman's dictum. I am compelled to report that theyappeared never to have heard of his theory. At any rate they veryplainly did fly tail foremost; and that not only in _dropping_ from ablossom, --in which case the seeming flight might have been, as the dukemaintains, an optical illusion merely, --but even while backing out ofthe flower-tube in an upward direction. They are commendably catholic intheir tastes. I saw one exploring the disk of a sunflower, in companywith a splendid monarch butterfly. Possibly he knew that the sunflowerwas just then in fashion. Only a few minutes earlier the same bird--oranother like him--had chased an English sparrow out of the Garden, across Arlington Street, and up to the very roof of a House, to thegreat delight of at least one patriotic Yankee. At another time I sawone of these tiny beauties making his morning toilet in a very prettyfashion, leaning forward, and brushing first one cheek and then theother against the wet rose leaf on which he was perched. 

The only swallows on my list are the barn swallows and thewhite-breasted. The former, as they go hawking about the crowdedstreets, must often send the thoughts of rich city merchants back to thebig barns of their grandfathers, far off in out-of-the-way countryplaces. Of course we have the chimney swifts, also (near relatives ofthe humming-birds!), but they are not swallows. 

Speaking of the swallows, I am reminded of a hawk that came to Boston, one morning, fully determined not to go away without a taste of thefamous imported sparrows. It is nothing unusual for hawks to be seenflying over the city, but I had never before known one actually to makethe Public Garden his hunting-ground. This bird perched for a while onthe Arlington Street fence, within a few feet of a passing carriage;next he was on the ground, peering into a bed of rhododendrons; then fora long time he sat still in a tree, while numbers of men walked backand forth underneath; between whiles he sailed about, on the watch forhis prey. On one of these last occasions a little company of swallowscame along, and one of them immediately went out of his way to swoopdown upon the hawk, and deal him a dab. Then, as he rejoined hiscompanions, I heard him give a little chuckle, as though he said, "There!did you see me peck at him? You don't think I am afraid of such afellow as that, do you?" To speak in Thoreau's manner, I rejoiced in theincident as a fresh illustration of the ascendency of spirit overmatter. 

One is always glad to find a familiar bird playing a new _rôle_, andespecially in such a spot as the Common, where, at the best, one canhope to see so very little. It may be assumed, therefore, that I feltpeculiarly grateful to a white-bellied nuthatch, when I discovered himbopping about on the ground--on Monument Hill; a piece of humility suchas I had never before detected any nuthatch in the practice of. Indeed, this fellow looked so unlike himself, moving briskly through the grasswith long, awkward leaps, that at first sight I failed to recognize him. He was occupied with turning over the dry leaves, one afteranother, --hunting for cocoons, or things of that sort, I suppose. Twicehe found what he was in search of; but instead of handling the leaf onthe ground, he flew with it to the trunk of an elm, wedged it into acrevice of the bark, and proceeded to hammer it sharply with his beak. Great is the power of habit! Strange--is it not?--that any bird shouldfind it easiest to do such work while clinging to a perpendicularsurface! Yes; but how does it look to a dog, I wonder, that men can walkbetter on their hind legs than on all fours? Everything is a miraclefrom somebody's point of view. The sparrows were inclined to make gameof my obliging little performer; but he would have none of theirinsolence, and repelled every approach in dashing style. In exactlythree weeks from this time, and on the same hillside, I came uponanother nuthatch similarly employed; but before this one had turned up aleaf to his mind, the sparrows became literally too many for him, and hetook flight, --to my no small disappointment. 

It would be unfair not to name others of my city guests, even though Ihave nothing in particular to record concerning them. The Wilson thrushand the red-bellied nuthatch I have seen once or twice each. The chewinkis more constant in his visits, as is also the golden-winged woodpecker. Our familiar little downy woodpecker, on the other hand, has thus farkept out of my catalogue. No other bird's absence has surprised me somuch; and it is the more remarkable because the comparatively rareyellow-bellied species is to be met with nearly every season. Cedar-birds show themselves irregularly. One March morning, when theground was covered with snow, a flock of perhaps a hundred collected inone of the taller maples in the Garden, till the tree looked from adistance like an autumn hickory, its leafless branches still thicklydotted with nuts. Four days afterward, what seemed to be the samecompany made their appearance in the Common. Of the flycatchers, I havenoted the kingbird, the least flycatcher, and the phoebe. The twoformer stay to breed. Twice in the fall I have found a kingfisher aboutthe Frog Pond. Once the fellow sprung his watchman's rattle. He wasperhaps my most unexpected caller, and for a minute or so I was notentirely sure whether indeed I was in Boston or not. The blue jay andthe crow know too much to be caught in such a place, although one mayoften enough see the latter passing overhead. Every now and then, in thetraveling season, a stray sandpiper or two will be observed teeteringround the edge of the Common and Garden ponds; and one day, when thelatter was drained, I saw quite a flock of some one of the smallerspecies feeding over its bottom. Very picturesque they were, feeding andflying in close order. Besides these must be mentioned theyellow-throated vireo, the bay-winged bunting, the swamp sparrow, thefield sparrow, the purple finch, the red-poll linnet, the savannasparrow, the tree sparrow, the night-hawk (whose celebrated tumblingtrick may often be witnessed by evening strollers in the Garden), thewoodcock (I found the body of one which had evidently met its deathagainst the electric wire), and among the best of all, the chickadees, who sometimes make the whole autumn cheerful with their presence, butabout whom I say nothing here because I have said so much elsewhere. 

Of fugitive cage-birds, I recall only five--all in the Garden. One ofthese, feeding tamely in the path, I suspected for an English robin buthe was not in full plumage, and my conjecture may have been incorrect. Another was a diminutive finch, dressed in a suit of red, blue, andgreen. He sat in a bush, saying _No, no!_ to a feline admirer who wasmaking love to him earnestly. The others were a mocking-bird, a cardinalgrosbeak, and a paroquet. The mocking-bird and the grosbeak mightpossibly have been wild, had the question been one of latitude simply, but their demeanor satisfied me to the contrary. The former's awkwardattempt at alighting on the tip of a fence-picket seemed evidence enoughthat he had not been long at large. The paroquet was a splendidcreature, with a brilliant orange throat darkly spotted. He flew fromtree to tree, chattering gayly, and had a really pretty song. Evidentlyhe was in the best of spirits, notwithstanding the rather obtrusiveattentions of a crowd of house sparrows, who appeared to look upon sucha wearer of the green as badly out of place in this new England oftheirs. But for all his vivacity, I feared he would not be long incoming to grief. If he escaped other perils, the cold weather must soonovertake him, for it was now the middle of September, and his last statewould be worse than his first. He had better have kept his cage; unless, indeed, he was one of the nobler spirits that prefer death to slavery. 

Of all the birds thus far named, very few seemed to attract theattention of anybody except myself. But there remains one other, whom Ihave reserved for the last, not because he was in himself the noblest orthe most interesting (though he was perhaps the biggest), but because, unlike the rest, he did succeed in winning the notice of the multitude. In fact, my one owl, to speak theatrically, made a decided hit; for asingle afternoon he may be said to have been famous, --or at all eventsnotorious, if any old-fashioned reader be disposed to insist upon thisall but obsolete distinction. His triumph, such as it was, had alreadybegun when I first discovered him, for he was then perched well up in anelm, while a mob of perhaps forty men and boys were pelting him withsticks and stones. Even in the dim light of a cloudy November afternoonhe seemed quite bewildered and helpless, making no attempt to escape, although the missiles were flying past him on all sides. The most he didwas to shift his perch when he was hit, which, to be sure, happenedpretty often. Once he was struck so hard that he came tumbling towardthe ground, and I began to think it was all over with him; but whenabout half-way down he recovered himself, and by dint of painfulflappings succeeded in alighting just out of the reach of the crowd. Atonce there were loud cries: "Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" and whilethe scamps were debating what to do next, he regained his breath, andflew up into the tree again, as high as before. Then the stoning begananew. For my part I pitied the fellow sincerely, and wished him well outof the hands of his tormentors; but I found myself laughing with therest to see him turn his head and stare, with his big, vacant eyes, after a stone which had just whizzed by his ear. Everybody that camealong stopped for a few minutes to witness the sport, and Beacon Streetfilled up with carriages till it looked as if some holiday processionwere halted in front of the State House. I left the crowd still at theirwork, and must do them the justice to say that some of them wereexcellent marksmen. An old negro, who stood near me, was bewailing thelaw against shooting; else, he said, he would go home and get his gun. He described, with appropriate gestures, how very easily he could fetchthe bird down. Perhaps he afterwards plucked up courage to violate thestatute. At any rate the next morning's newspapers reported that an owlhad been shot, the day before, on the Common. Poor bird of wisdom! Hissudden popularity proved to be the death of him. Like many of loftiername he found it true, --

 "The path of glory leads but to the grave. "

FOOTNOTES:

[1] My identification of _Turdus Aliciæ_ was based entirely upon thesong, and so, of course, had no final scientific value. It was confirmeda few weeks later, however, by Mr. William Brewster, who took specimens. (See _Bulletin of the Nuttall Ornithological Club_, January, 1883, p. 12. ) Prior to this the species was not known to breed in New England. 

[2] _The Reign of Law_, p. 140. 

 BIRD-SONGS. 

 Canst thou imagine where those spirits live Which make such delicate music in the woods?

 SHELLEY. 

 BIRD-SONGS. 

Why do birds sing? Has their music a meaning, or is it all a matter ofblind impulse? Some bright morning in March, as you go out-of-doors, youare greeted by the notes of the first robin. Perched in a leafless tree, there he sits, facing the sun like a genuine fire-worshiper, and singingas though he would pour out his very soul. What is he thinking about?What spirit possesses him?

It is easy to ask questions until the simplest matter comes to seem, what at bottom it really is, a thing altogether mysterious; but if ourrobin could understand us, he would, likely enough, reply:--

"Why do you talk in this way, as if it were something requiringexplanation that a bird should sing? You seem to have forgotten thateverybody sings, or almost everybody. Think of the insects, --the beesand the crickets and the locusts, to say nothing of your intimatefriends, the mosquitoes! Think, too, of the frogs and the hylas! Ifthese cold-blooded, low-lived creatures, after sleeping all winter inthe mud, [3] are free to make so much use of their voices, surely a birdof the air may sing his unobtrusive song without being cross-examinedconcerning the purpose of it. Why do the mice sing, and the monkeys, andthe woodchucks? Indeed, sir, --if one may be so bold, --why do you sing, yourself?"

This matter-of-fact Darwinism need not frighten us. It will do us noharm to remember, now and then, "the hole of the pit whence we weredigged;" and besides, as far as any relationship between us and thebirds is concerned, it is doubtful whether we are the party to complain. 

But avoiding "genealogies and contentions, " and taking up the questionwith which we began, we may safely say that birds sing, sometimes togratify an innate love for sweet sounds; sometimes to win a mate, or totell their love to a mate already won; sometimes as practice, with aview to self-improvement; and sometimes for no better reason than thepoet's, --"I do but sing because I must. " In general, they sing for joy;and their joy, of course, has various causes. 

For one thing, they are very sensitive to the weather. With them, aswith us, sunlight and a genial warmth go to produce serenity. A brightsummer-like day, late in October, or even in November, will set thesmaller birds to singing, and the grouse to drumming. I heard a robinventuring a little song on the 25th of last December; but that, foraught I know, was a Christmas carol. No matter what the season, you willnot hear a great deal of bird music during a high wind; and if you arecaught in the woods by a sudden shower in May or June, and are not toomuch taken up with thoughts of your own condition, you will hardly failto notice the instant silence which falls upon the woods with the rain. Birds, however, are more or less inconsistent (that is, a part of theirlikeness to us), and sometimes sing most freely when the sky isovercast. 

But their highest joys are by no means dependent upon the moods of theweather. A comfortable state of mind is not to be contemned, but beingswho are capable of deep and passionate affection recognize a differencebetween comfort and ecstasy. And the peculiar glory of birds is justhere, in the all-consuming fervor of their love. It would be commonplaceto call them models of conjugal and parental faithfulness. With a fewexceptions (and these, it is a pleasure to add, not singers), the veryleast of them is literally faithful unto death. Here and there, in thenotes of some collector, we are told of a difficulty he has had insecuring a coveted specimen: the tiny creature, whose mate had beenalready "collected, " would persist in hovering so closely about theinvader's head that it was impossible to shoot him without spoiling himfor the cabinet by blowing him to pieces!

Need there be any mystery about the singing of such a lover? Is itsurprising if at times he is so enraptured that he can no longer sittamely on the branch, but must dart into the air, and go circling roundand round, caroling as he flies?

So far as song is the voice of emotion, it will of necessity vary withthe emotion; and every one who has ears must have heard once in a whilebird music of quite unusual fervor. For example, I have often seen theleast flycatcher (a very unromantic-looking body, surely) when he wasalmost beside himself; flying in a circle, and repeating breathlesslyhis emphatic _chebec_. And once I found a wood pewee in a somewhatsimilar mood. He was more quiet than the least flycatcher; but he toosang on the wing, and I have never heard notes which seemed moreexpressive of happiness. Many of them were entirely new and strange, although the familiar _pewee_ was introduced among the rest. As Ilistened, I felt it to be an occasion for thankfulness that thedelighted creature had never studied anatomy, and did not know that thestructure of his throat made it improper for him to sing. In thisconnection, also, I recall a cardinal grosbeak, whom I heard severalyears ago, on the bank of the Potomac River. An old soldier had taken meto visit the Great Falls, and as we were clambering over the rocks thisgrosbeak began to sing; and soon, without any hint from me, and withoutknowing who the invisible musician was, my companion remarked upon theuncommon beauty of the song. The cardinal is always a great singer, having a voice which, as European writers say, is almost equal to thenightingale's; but in this case the more stirring, martial quality ofthe strain had given place to an exquisite mellowness, as if it were, what I have no doubt it was, a song of love. 

Every kind of bird has notes of its own, so that a thoroughly practicedear would be able to discriminate the different species with nearly asmuch certainty as Professor Baird would feel after an examination of theanatomy and plumage. Still this strong specific resemblance is far frombeing a dead uniformity. Aside from the fact, already mentioned, thatthe characteristic strain is sometimes given with extraordinarysweetness and emphasis, there are often to be detected variations of amore formal character. This is noticeably true of robins. It may almostbe said that no two of them sing alike; while now and then theirvagaries are conspicuous enough to attract general attention. One whowas my neighbor last year interjected into his song a series of four orfive most exact imitations of the peep of a chicken. When I first heardthis performance, I was in company with two friends, both of whomnoticed and laughed at it; and some days afterwards I visited the spotagain, and found the bird still rehearsing the same ridiculous medley. Iconjectured that he had been brought up near a hen-coop, and, moreover, had been so unfortunate as to lose his father before his notes hadbecome thoroughly fixed; and then, being compelled to finish his musicaleducation by himself, had taken a fancy to practice these chicken calls. This guess may not have been correct. All I can affirm is that he sangexactly as he might have been expected to do, on that supposition; butcertainly the resemblance seemed too close to be accidental. 

The variations of the wood thrush are fully as striking as those of therobin, and sometimes it is impossible not to feel that the artist ismaking a deliberate effort to do something out of the ordinary course, something better than he has ever done before. Now and then he prefaceshis proper song with many disconnected, extremely _staccato_ notes, following each other at very distant and unexpected intervals of pitch. It is this, I conclude, which is meant by some writer (who it is Icannot now remember) when he criticises the wood thrush for spending toomuch time in tuning his instrument. But the fault is the critic's, Ithink; to my ear these preliminaries sound rather like the recitativewhich goes before the grand _aria_. 

Still another musician who delights to take liberties with his score isthe towhee bunting, or chewink. Indeed, he carries the matter so farthat sometimes it seems almost as if he suspected the proximity of someself-conceited ornithologist, and were determined, if possible, to makea fool of him. And for my part, being neither self conceited nor anornithologist, I am willing to confess that I have once or twice been sobadly deceived that now the mere sight of this _Pipilo_ is, so to speak, a means of grace to me. 

One more of these innovators (these heretics, as they are most likelycalled by their more conservative brethren) is the field sparrow, better known as _Spizella pusilla_. His usual song consists of a simpleline of notes, beginning leisurely, but growing shorter and more rapidto the close. The voice is so smooth and sweet, and the acceleration sowell managed, that, although the whole is commonly a strict monotone, the effect is not in the least monotonous. This song I once heardrendered in reverse order, with a result so strange that I did notsuspect the identity of the author till I had crept up within sight ofhim. Another of these sparrows, who has passed the last two seasons inmy neighborhood, habitually doubles the measure; going through it in theusual way, and then, just as you expect him to conclude, catching it upagain, _Da capo_. 

But birds like these are quite outdone by such species as the songsparrow, the white-eyed vireo, and the Western meadow-lark, --species ofwhich we may say that each individual bird has a whole repertory ofsongs at his command. The song sparrow, who is the best known of thethree, will repeat one melody perhaps a dozen times, then change it fora second, and in turn leave that for a third; as if he were singinghymns of twelve or fifteen stanzas each, and set each hymn to itsappropriate tune. It is something well worth listening to, commonthough it is, and may easily suggest a number of questions about theorigin and meaning of bird music. 

The white-eyed vireo is a singer of astonishing spirit, and his suddenchanges from one theme to another are sometimes almost startling. He isa skillful ventriloquist, also, and I remember one in particular whooutwitted me completely. He was rehearsing a well-known strain, but atthe end there came up from the bushes underneath a querulous call. Atfirst I took it for granted that some other bird was in the underbrush;but the note was repeated too many times, and came in too exactly on thebeat. 

I have no personal acquaintance with the Western meadow-lark, but noless than twenty-six of his songs have been printed in musical notation, and these are said to be by no means all. [4]

Others of our birds have similar gifts, though no others, so far as Iknow, are quite so versatile as these three. Several of the warblers, for example, have attained to more than one set song, notwithstandingthe deservedly small reputation of this misnamed family. I have myselfheard the golden-crowned thrush, the black-throated green warbler, theblack-throated blue, the yellow-rumped, and the chestnut-sided, singtwo melodies each, while the blue golden-winged has at least three; andthis, of course, without making anything of slight variations such asall birds are more or less accustomed to indulge in. The best of thethree songs of the blue golden-wing I have never heard except on oneoccasion, but then it was repeated for half an hour under my very eyes. It bore no resemblance to the common _dsee_, _dsee_, _dsee_, of thespecies, and would appear to be seldom used; for not only have I neverheard it since, but none of the writers seem ever to have heard it atall. However, I still keep a careful description of it, which I tookdown on the spot, and which I expect some future golden-wing to verify. 

But the most celebrated of the warblers in this regard is thegolden-crowned thrush, otherwise called the oven-bird and the woodwagtail. His ordinary effort is one of the noisiest, least melodious, and most incessant sounds to be heard in our woods. His _song_ isanother matter. For that he takes to the air (usually starting from atree-top, although I have seen him rise from the ground), whence, aftera preliminary _chip_, _chip_, he lets fall a hurried flood of notes, inthe midst of which can usually be distinguished his familiar _weechee_, _weechee_, _weechee_. It is nothing wonderful that he should sing onthe wing, --many other birds do the same, and very much better than he;but he is singular in that he strictly reserves his aerial music forlate in the afternoon. I have heard it as early as three o'clock, butnever before that, and it is most common about sunset. Writers speak ofit as limited to the season of courtship; but I have heard it almostdaily till near the end of July, and once, for my special benefit, perhaps, it was given in full--and repeated--on the first day ofSeptember. But who taught the little creature to do this, --to sing onesong in the forenoon, perched upon a twig, and to keep another forafternoon, singing that invariably on the wing? and what difference isthere between the two in the mind of the singer?[5]

It is an indiscretion ever to say of a bird that he has only such andsuch notes. You may have been his friend for years, but the next timeyou go into the woods he will likely enough put you to shame by singingsomething not so much as hinted at in your description. I thought I knewthe song of the yellow-rumped warbler, having listened to it manytimes, --a slight and rather characterless thing, nowise remarkable. Butcoming down Mount Willard one day in June, I heard a warbler's songwhich brought me to a sudden halt. It was new and beautiful, --morebeautiful, it seemed at the moment, than any warbler's song I had everheard. What could it be? A little patient waiting (while the black-fliesand mosquitoes "came upon me to eat up my flesh"), and the wonderfulstranger appeared in full view, --my old acquaintance, the yellow-rumpedwarbler. 

With all this strong tendency on the part of birds to vary their music, how is it that there is still such a degree of uniformity, so that, aswe have said, every species may be recognized by its notes? Why doesevery red-eyed vireo sing in one way, and every white-eyed vireo inanother? Who teaches the young chipper to trill, and the young linnet towarble? In short, how do birds come by their music? Is it all a matterof instinct, inherited habit, or do they learn it? The answer appears tobe that birds sing as children talk, by simple imitation. Nobodyimagines that the infant is born with a language printed upon his brain. The father and mother may never have known a word of any tongue exceptthe English, but if the child is brought up to hear only Chinese, hewill infallibly speak that, and nothing else. And careful experimentshave shown the same to be true of birds. [6] Taken from the nest justafter they leave the shell, they invariably sing, not their ownso-called natural song, but the song of their foster-parents; provided, of course, that this is not anything beyond their physical capacity. Thenotorious house sparrow (our "English" sparrow), in his wild orsemi-domesticated state, never makes a musical sound; but if he is takenin hand early enough, he may be taught to sing, so it is said, nearly aswell as the canary. Bechstein relates that a Paris clergyman had two ofthese sparrows whom he had trained to speak, and, among other things, torecite several of the shorter commandments; and the narrative goes on tosay that it was sometimes very comical, when the pair were disputingover their food, to hear one gravely admonish the other, "Thou shalt notsteal!" It would be interesting to know why creatures thus gifted do notsing of their own motion. With their amiability and sweet peaceablenessthey ought to be caroling the whole year round. 

This question of the transmission of songs from one generation toanother is, of course, a part of the general subject of animalintelligence, a subject much discussed in these days on account of itsbearing upon the modern doctrine concerning the relation of man to theinferior orders. 

We have nothing to do with such a theme, but it may not be out of placeto suggest to preachers and moralists that here is a striking andunhackneyed illustration of the force of early training. Birds sing byimitation, it is true, but as a rule they imitate only the notes whichthey hear during the first few weeks after they are hatched. One of Mr. Barrington's linnets, for example, after being educated under a titlark, was put into a room with two birds of his own species, where he heardthem sing freely every day for three months. He made no attempt to learnanything from them, however, but kept on practicing what the titlark hadtaught him, quite unconscious of anything singular or unpatriotic insuch a course. This law, that impressions received during the immaturityof the powers become the unalterable habit of the after life, is perhapsthe most momentous of all the laws in whose power we find ourselves. Sometimes we are tempted to call it cruel. But if it were annulled, thiswould be a strange world. What a hurly-hurly we should have among thebirds! There would be no more telling them by their notes. Thrushes andjays, wrens and chickadees, finches and warblers, all would be singingone grand medley. 

Between these two opposing tendencies, one urging to variation, theother to permanence (for Nature herself is half radical, halfconservative), the language of birds has grown from rude beginnings toits present beautiful diversity; and whoever lives a century ofmillenniums hence will listen to music such as we in this day can onlydream of. Inappreciably but ceaselessly the work goes on. Here and thereis born a master-singer, a feathered genius, and every generation makesits own addition to the glorious inheritance. 

It may be doubted whether there is any real connection between moralcharacter and the possession of wings. Nevertheless there has long beena popular feeling that some such congruity does exist; and certainly itseems unreasonable to suppose that creatures who are able to soar atwill into the heavens should be without other equally angelicattributes. But, be that as it may, our friends, the birds, doundeniably set us a good example in several respects. To mention onlyone, how becoming is their observance of morning and evening song! Inspite of their industrious spirit (and few of us labor more hoursdaily), neither their first nor their last thoughts are given to thequestion, What shall we eat, and what shall we drink? Possibly theirhabit of saluting the rising and setting sun may be thought to favor thetheory that the worship of the god of day was the original religion. Iknow nothing about that. But it would be a sad change if the birds, declining from their present beautiful custom, were to sleep and work, work and sleep, with no holy hour between, as is too much the case withthe being who, according to his own pharisaic notion, is the onlyreligious animal. 

In the season, however, the woods are by no means silent, even atnoonday. Many species (such as the vireos and warblers, who get theirliving amid the foliage of trees) sing as they work; while the thrushesand others, who keep business and pleasure more distinct, are often toohappy to go many hours together without a hymn. I have even seen robinssinging without quitting the turf; but that is rather unusual, forsomehow birds have come to feel that they must get away from the groundwhen the lyrical mood is upon them. This may be a thing of sentiment(for is not language full of uncomplimentary allusions to earth andearthliness?), but more likely it is prudential. The gift of song is nodoubt a dangerous blessing to creatures who have so many enemies, and wecan readily believe that they have found it safer to be up where theycan look about them while thus publishing their whereabouts. 

A very interesting exception to this rule is the savanna sparrow, whosings habitually from the ground. But even he shares the common feeling, and stretches himself to his full height with an earnestness which isalmost laughable, in view of the result; for his notes are hardly louderthan a cricket's chirp. Probably he has fallen into this lowly habitfrom living in meadows and salt marshes, where bushes and trees are notreadily to be come at; and it is worth noticing that, in the case of theskylark and the white-winged blackbird, the same conditions have led toa result precisely opposite. The sparrow, we may presume, was originallyof a humble disposition, and when nothing better offered itself for asinging-perch easily grew accustomed to standing upon a stone or alittle lump of earth; and this practice, long persisted in, naturallyhad the effect to lessen the loudness of his voice. The skylark, on theother hand, when he did not readily find a tree-top, said to himself, "Never mind! I have a pair of wings. " And so the lark is famous, whilethe sparrow remains unheard-of, and is even mistaken for agrasshopper. 

How true it is that the very things which dishearten one nature andbreak it down, only help another to find out what it was made for! Ifyou would foretell the development, either of a bird or of a man, it isnot enough to know his environment, you must know also what there is inhim. 

We have possibly made too much of the savanna sparrow's innocenteccentricity. He fills his place, and fills it well; and who knows butthat he may yet outshine the skylark? There is a promise, I believe, forthose who humble themselves. But what shall be said of species which donot even try to sing, and that, notwithstanding they have all thestructural peculiarities of singing birds, and must, almost certainly, have come from ancestors who were singers? We have already mentioned thehouse sparrow, whose defect is the more mysterious on account of hisbelonging to so highly musical a family. But _he_ was never accused ofnot being noisy enough, while we have one bird who, though he is classedwith the oscines, passes his life in almost unbroken silence. Of courseI refer to the waxwing, or cedar-bird, whose faint, sibilant whisper canscarcely be thought to contradict the foregoing description. By whatstrange freak he has lapsed into this ghostly habit, nobody knows. Imake no account of the insinuation that he gave up music because ithindered his success in cherry-stealing. He likes cherries, it is true;and who can blame him? But he would need to work hard to steal more thandoes that indefatigable songster, the robin. I feel sure he has somebetter reason than this for his Quakerish conduct. But, however he cameby his stillness, it is likely that by this time he plumes himself uponit. Silence is golden, he thinks, the supreme result of the highestæsthetic culture. Those loud creatures, the thrushes and finches! What avulgar set they are, to be sure, the more's the pity! Certainly if hedoes not reason in some such way, bird nature is not so human as we havegiven it credit for being. Besides, the waxwing has an uncommonappreciation of the decorous; at least, we must think so if we are ableto credit a story of Nuttall's. He declares that a Boston gentleman, whose name he gives, saw one of a company of these birds capture aninsect, and offer it to his neighbor; he, however, delicately declinedthe dainty bit, and it was offered to the next, who, in turn, wasequally polite; and the morsel actually passed back and forth along theline, till, finally, one of the flock was persuaded to eat it. I havenever seen anything equal to this; but one day, happening to stop undera low cedar, I discovered right over my head a waxwing's nest with themother-bird sitting upon it, while her mate was perched beside her onthe branch. He was barely out of my reach, but he did not move a muscle;and although he uttered no sound, his behavior said as plainly aspossible, "What do you expect to do _here_? Don't you see _I_ amstanding guard over this nest?" I should be ashamed not to be able toadd that I respected his dignity and courage, and left him and hiscastle unmolested. 

Observations so discursive as these can hardly be finished; they mustbreak off abruptly, or else go on forever. Let us make an end, therefore, with expressing our hope that the cedar-bird, already sohandsome and chivalrous, will yet take to himself a song; one sweet andoriginal, worthy to go with his soft satin coat, his ornaments ofsealing-wax, and his magnificent top-knot. Let him do that, and he shallalways be made welcome; yes, even though he come in force and incherry-time. 

FOOTNOTES:

[3] There is no Historic-Genealogical Society among the birds, and therobin is not aware that his own remote ancestors were reptiles. If hewere, he would hardly speak so disrespectfully of these batrachians. 

[4] Mr. C. N. Allen, in _Bulletin of the Nuttall Ornithological Club_, July, 1881. 

[5] Since this paper was written I have three times heard the woodwagtail's true song in the morning, --but in neither case was the bird inthe air. See p. 284. 

[6] See the paper of Daines Barrington in _Philosophical Transactions_for 1773; also, Darwin's _Descent of Man_, and Wallace's _NaturalSelection_. 

 CHARACTER IN FEATHERS. 

 The finger of God hath left an inscription upon all his works, not graphical or composed of letters, but of their several forms, constitutions, parts, and operations, which, aptly joined together, do make one word that doth express their natures. By these letters God calls the stars by their names; and by this alphabet Adam assigned to every creature a name peculiar to its nature. 

 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 

 CHARACTER IN FEATHERS. 

In this economically governed world the same thing serves many uses. Whowill take upon himself to enumerate the offices of sunlight, or water, or indeed of any object whatever? Because we know it to be good for thisor that, it by no means follows that we have discovered what it was madefor. What we have found out is perhaps only something by the way; as ifa man should think the sun were created for his own private convenience. In some moods it seems doubtful whether we are yet acquainted with thereal value of anything. But, be that as it may, we need not scruple toadmire so much as our ignorance permits us to see of the workings ofthis divine frugality. The piece of woodland, for instance, which skirtsthe village, --how various are its ministries to the inhabitants, each ofwhom, without forethought or question, takes the benefit proper tohimself! The poet saunters there as in a true Holy Land, to have hisheart cooled and stilled. Mr. A. And Mr. B. , who hold the deeds of the"property, " walk through it to look at the timber, with an eye todollars and cents. The botanist has his errand there, the zoölogist his, and the child his. Oftenest of all, perhaps (for barbarism dies hard, and even yet the ministers of Christ find it a capital sport to murdersmall fishes), --oftenest of all comes the man, poor soul, who thinks ofthe forest as of a place to which he may go when he wishes to amusehimself by killing something. Meanwhile, the rabbits and the squirrels, the hawks and the owls, look upon all such persons as no better thanintruders (do not the woods belong to those who live in them?); whilenobody remembers the meteorologist, who nevertheless smiles in hissleeve at all these one-sided notions, and says to himself that he knowsthe truth of the matter. 

So is it with everything; and with all the rest, so is it with thebirds. The interest they excite is of all grades, from that which looksupon them as items of millinery, up to that of the makers ofornithological systems, who ransack the world for specimens, and whohave no doubt that the chief end of a bird is to be named andcatalogued, --the more synonyms the better. Somewhere between these twoextremes comes the person whose interest in birds is friendly ratherthan scientific; who has little taste for shooting, and an aversionfrom dissecting; who delights in the living creatures themselves, andcounts a bird in the bush worth two in the hand. Such a person, if he isintelligent, makes good use of the best works on ornithology; he wouldnot know how to get along without them; but he studies most the birdsthemselves, and after a while he begins to associate them on a plan ofhis own. Not that he distrusts the approximate correctness of thereceived classification, or ceases to find it of daily service; butthough it were as accurate as the multiplication table, it is based (andrightly, no doubt) on anatomical structure alone; it rates birds asbodies, and nothing else: while to the person of whom we are speakingbirds are, first of all, souls; his interest in them is, as we say, personal; and we are none of us in the habit of grouping our friendsaccording to height, or complexion, or any other physical peculiarity. 

But it is not proposed in this paper to attempt a new classification ofany sort, even the most unscientific and fanciful. All I am to do is toset down at random a few studies in such a method as I have indicated;in short, a few studies in the temperaments of birds. Nor, in makingthis attempt, am I unmindful how elusive of analysis traits of characterare, and how diverse is the impression which the same personalityproduces upon different observers. In matters of this kind everyjudgment is largely a question of emphasis and proportion; and, moreover, what we find in our friends depends in great part on what wehave in ourselves. This I do not forget; and therefore I foresee thatothers will discover in the birds of whom I write many things that Imiss, and perhaps will miss some things which I have treated as patentor even conspicuous. It remains only for each to testify what he hasseen, and at the end to confess that a soul, even the soul of a bird, isafter all a mystery. 

Let our first example, then, be the common black-capped titmouse, orchickadee. He is, _par excellence_, the bird of the merry heart. Thereis a notion current, to be sure, that all birds are merry; but that isone of those second-hand opinions which a man who begins to observe forhimself soon finds it necessary to give up. With many birds life is ahard struggle. Enemies are numerous, and the food supply is too oftenscanty. Of some species it is probable that very few die in their beds. But the chickadee seems to be exempt from all forebodings. His coat isthick, his heart is brave, and, whatever may happen, something will befound to eat. "Take no thought for the morrow" is his creed, which heaccepts, not "for substance of doctrine, " but literally. No matter howbitter the wind or how deep the snow, you will never find the chickadee, as the saying is, under the weather. It is this perennial good humor, Isuppose, which makes other birds so fond of his companionship; and theirexample might well be heeded by persons who suffer from fits ofdepression. Such unfortunates could hardly do better than to court thesociety of the joyous tit. His whistles and chirps, his graceful featsof climbing and hanging, and withal his engaging familiarity (for, ofcourse, such good-nature as his could not consist with suspiciousness)would most likely send them home in a more Christian mood. The time willcome, we may hope, when doctors will prescribe bird-gazing instead ofblue-pill. 

To illustrate the chickadee's trustfulness, I may mention that a friendof mine captured one in a butterfly-net, and, carrying him into thehouse, let him loose in the sitting-room. The little stranger was athome immediately, and seeing the window full of plants, proceeded to goover them carefully, picking off the lice with which such window-gardensare always more or less infested. A little later he was taken into myfriend's lap, and soon he climbed up to his shoulder; where, afterhopping about for a few minutes on his coat-collar, he selected acomfortable roosting place, tucked his head under his wing, and went tosleep, and slept on undisturbed while carried from one room to another. Probably the chickadee's nature is not of the deepest. I have never seenhim when his joy rose to ecstasy. Still his feelings are not shallow, and the faithfulness of the pair to each other and to their offspring isof the highest order. The female has sometimes to be taken off the nest, and even to be held in the hand, before the eggs can be examined. 

Our American goldfinch is one of the loveliest of birds. With hiselegant plumage, his rhythmical, undulatory flight, his beautiful song, and his more beautiful soul, he ought to be one of the best beloved, ifnot one of the most famous; but he has never yet had half his deserts. He is like the chickadee, and yet different. He is not so extremelyconfiding, nor should I call him merry. But he is always cheerful, inspite of his so-called plaintive note, from which he gets one of hisnames, and always amiable. So far as I know, he never utters a harshsound; even the young ones, asking for food, use only smooth, musicaltones. During the pairing season his delight often becomes rapturous. Tosee him then, hovering and singing, --or, better still, to see thedevoted pair hovering together, billing and singing, --is enough to doeven a cynic good. The happy lovers! They have never read it in a book, but it is written on their hearts, --

 "The gentle law, that each should be The other's heaven and harmony. "

The goldfinch has the advantage of the titmouse in several respects, buthe lacks that sprightliness, that exceeding light-heartedness, which isthe chickadee's most endearing characteristic. 

For the sake of a strong contrast, we may look next at the brown thrush, known to farmers as the planting-bird and to ornithologists as_Harporhynchus rufus_; a staid and solemn Puritan, whose creed is thePreacher's, --"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. " No frivolity andmerry-making for him! After his brief annual period of intenselypassionate song, he does penance for the remainder of theyear, --skulking about, on the ground or near it, silent and gloomy. Heseems ever on the watch against an enemy, and, unfortunately for hiscomfort, he has nothing of the reckless, bandit spirit, such as the jaypossesses, which goes to make a moderate degree of danger almost apastime. Not that he is without courage; when his nest is in question hewill take great risks; but in general his manner is dispirited, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. " Evidently he feels

 "The heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world;"

and it would not be surprising if he sometimes raised the question, "Islife worth living?" It is the worst feature of his case that hismelancholy is not of the sort which softens and refines the nature. There is no suggestion of saintliness about it. In fact, I am convincedthat this long-tailed thrush has a constitutional taint of vulgarity. His stealthy, underhand manner is one mark of this, and the same thingcomes out again in his music. Full of passion as his singing is (and wehave hardly anything to compare with it in this regard), yet thelistener cannot help smiling now and then; the very finest passage isfollowed so suddenly by some uncouth guttural note, or by some whimsicaldrop from the top to the bottom of the scale. 

In neighborly association with the brown thrush is the towhee bunting, or chewink. The two choose the same places for their summer homes, and, unless I am deceived, they often migrate in company. But though they areso much together, and in certain of their ways very much alike, theirhabits of mind are widely dissimilar. The towhee is of a peculiarly evendisposition. I have seldom heard him scold, or use any note lessgood-natured and musical than his pleasant _cherawink_. I have neverdetected him in a quarrel such as nearly all birds are once in a whileguilty of, ungracious as it may seem to mention the fact; nor have Iever seen him hopping nervously about and twitching his tail, as is themanner of most species, when, for instance, their nests are approached. Nothing seems to annoy him. At the same time, he is not full ofcontinual merriment like the chickadee, nor occasionally in a rapturelike the goldfinch. Life with him is pitched in a low key; comfortablerather than cheerful, and never jubilant. And yet, for all the towhee'scareless demeanor, you soon begin to suspect him of being deep. Heappears not to mind you; he keeps on scratching among the dry leaves asif he had no thought of being driven away by your presence; but in aminute or two you look that way again, and he is not there. If you passnear his nest, he makes not a tenth part of the ado which a brown thrushwould make in the same circumstances, but (partly for this reason) youwill find half a dozen nests of the thrush sooner than one of his. Withall his simplicity and frankness, which puts him in happy contrast withthe thrush, he knows as well as anybody how to keep his own counsel. Ihave seen him with his mate for two or three days together about theflower-beds in the Boston Public Garden, and so far as appeared theywere feeding as unconcernedly as though they had been on their ownnative heath, amid the scrub-oaks and huckleberry bushes; but aftertheir departure it was remembered that they had not once been heard toutter a sound. If self-possession be four fifths of good manners, ourred-eyed Pipilo may certainly pass for a gentleman. 

We have now named four birds, the chickadee, the goldfinch, the brownthrush, and the towhee, --birds so diverse in plumage that no eye couldfail to discriminate them at a glance. But the four differ no more trulyin bodily shape and dress than they do in that inscrutable somethingwhich we call temperament, disposition. If the soul of each wereseparated from the body and made to stand out in sight, those of us whohave really known the birds in the flesh would have no difficulty insaying, This is the titmouse, and this the towhee. It would be with themas we hope it will be with our friends in the next world, whom we shallrecognize there because we knew them here; that is, we knew _them_, andnot merely the bodies they lived in. This kind of familiarity with birdshas no necessary connection with ornithology. Personal intimacy and aknowledge of anatomy are still two different things. As we have allheard, ours is an age of science; but, thank fortune, matters have notyet gone so far that a man must take a course in anthropology before hecan love his neighbor. 

It is a truth only too patent that taste and conscience are sometimes atodds. One man wears his faults so gracefully that we can hardly helpfalling in love with them, while another, alas, makes even virtue itselfrepulsive. I am moved to this commonplace reflection by thinking of theblue jay, a bird of doubtful character, but one for whom, nevertheless, it is impossible not to feel a sort of affection and even of respect. Heis quite as suspicious as the brown thrush, and his instinct for aninvisible perch is perhaps as unerring as the cuckoo's; and yet, evenwhen he takes to hiding, his manner is not without a dash of boldness. He has a most irascible temper, also, but, unlike the thrasher, he doesnot allow his ill-humor to degenerate into chronic sulkiness. Instead, he flies into a furious passion, and is done with it. Some say that onsuch occasions he swears, and I have myself seen him when it was plainthat nothing except a natural impossibility kept him from tearing hishair. His larynx would make him a singer, and his mental capacity is farabove the average; but he has perverted his gifts, till his music isnothing but noise and his talent nothing but smartness. A like processof depravation the world has before now witnessed in political life, when a man of brilliant natural endowments has yielded to low ambitionsand stooped to unworthy means, till what was meant to be a statesmanturns put to be a demagogue. But perhaps we wrong our handsome friend, fallen angel though he be, to speak thus of him. Most likely he wouldresent the comparison, and I do not press it. We must admit thatjuvenile sportsmen have persecuted him unduly; and when a creaturecannot show himself without being shot at, he may be pardoned for alittle misanthropy. Christians as we are, how many of us could standsuch a test? In these circumstances, it is a point in the jay's favorthat he still has, what is rare with birds, a sense of humor, albeit itis humor of a rather grim sort, --the sort which expends itself inpractical jokes and uncivil epithets. He has discovered the school-boy'ssecret: that for the expression of unadulterated derision there isnothing like the short sound of _a_, prolonged into a drawl. _Yah_, _yah_, he cries; and sometimes, as you enter the woods, you may hearhim shouting so as to be heard for half a mile, "Here comes a fool witha gun; look out for him!"

It is natural to think of the shrike in connection with the jay, but thetwo have points of unlikeness no less than of resemblance. The shrikeis a taciturn bird. If he were a politician, he would rely chiefly onwhat is known as the "still hunt, " although he too can scream loudlyenough on occasion. His most salient trait is his impudence, but eventhat is of a negative type. "Who are you, " he says, "that I should be atthe trouble to insult you?" He has made a study of the value of silenceas an indication of contempt, and is almost human in his ability tostare straight by a person whose presence it suits him to ignore. Hisimperturbability is wonderful. Watch him as closely as you please, youwill never discover what he is thinking about. Undertake, for instance, now that the fellow is singing from the top of a small tree only a fewrods from where you are standing, --undertake to settle the long disputewhether his notes are designed to decoy small birds within his reach. Those whistles and twitters, --hear them! So miscellaneous! so differentfrom anything which would be expected from a bird of his size andgeneral disposition! so very like the notes of sparrows! They must beimitative. You begin to feel quite sure of it. But just at this pointthe sounds cease, and you look up to discover that Collurio has fallento preening his feathers in the most listless manner imaginable. "Lookat me, " he says; "do I act like one on the watch for his prey? Indeed, sir, I wish the innocent sparrows no harm; and besides, if you must knowit, I ate an excellent game-breakfast two hours ago, while laggards likeyou were still abed. " In the winter, which is the only season when Ihave been able to observe him, the shrike is to the last degreeunsocial, and I have known him to stay for a month in one spot all byhimself, spending a good part of every day perched upon a telegraphwire. He ought not to be very happy, with such a disposition, one wouldthink; but he seems to be well contented, and sometimes his spirits arefairly exuberant. Perhaps, as the phrase is, he enjoys _himself_; inwhich case he certainly has the advantage of most of us, --unless, indeed, we are easily pleased. At any rate, he is philosopher enough toappreciate the value of having few wants; and I am not sure but that heanticipated the vaunted discovery of Teufelsdröckh, that the fraction oflife may be increased by lessening the denominator. But even the stoicalshrike is not without his epicurean weakness. When he has killed asparrow, he eats the brains first; after that, if he is still hungry, hedevours the coarser and less savory parts. In this, however, he onlyshares the well-nigh universal inconsistency. There are never manythorough-going stoics in the world. Epictetus declared with an oaththat he should be glad to see _one_. [7] To take everything as equallygood, to know no difference between bitter and sweet, penury and plenty, slander and praise, --this is a great attainment, a Nirvana to which fewcan hope to arrive. Some wise man has said (and the remark has moremeaning than may at once appear) that dying is usually one of the lastthings which men do in this world. 

Against the foil of the butcher-bird's stolidity we may set theinquisitive, garrulous temperament of the white-eyed vireo and theyellow-breasted chat. The vireo is hardly larger than the goldfinch, butlet him be in one of his conversational moods, and he will fill a smilaxthicket with noise enough for two or three cat-birds. Meanwhile he keepshis eye upon you, and seems to be inviting your attention to hisloquacious abilities. The chat is perhaps even more voluble. _Staccato_whistles and snarls follow each other at most extraordinary intervals ofpitch, and the attempt at showing off is sometimes unmistakable. Occasionally he takes to the air, and flies from one tree to another;teetering his body and jerking his tail, in an indescribable fashion, and chattering all the while. His "inner consciousness" at such a momentwould be worth perusing. Possibly he has some feeling for the grotesque. But I suspect not; probably what we laugh at as the antics of a clown isall sober earnest to him. 

At best, it is very little we can know about what is passing in a bird'smind. We label him with two or three _sesquipedalia verba_, give histerritorial range, describe his notes and his habits of nidification, and fancy we have rendered an account of the bird. But how should welike to be inventoried in such a style? "His name was John Smith; helived in Boston, in a three-story brick house; he had a baritone voice, but was not a good singer. " All true enough; but do you call that aman's biography?

The four birds last spoken of are all wanting in refinement. The jay andthe shrike are wild and rough, not to say barbarous, while thewhite-eyed vireo and the chat have the character which commonly goes bythe name of oddity. All four are interesting for their strongindividuality and their picturesqueness, but it is a pleasure to turnfrom them to creatures like our four common New England _Hylocichlæ_, orsmall thrushes. These are the real patricians. With their modest butrich dress, and their dignified, quiet demeanor, they stand for thetrue aristocratic spirit. Like all genuine aristocrats, they carry anair of distinction, of which no one who approaches them can long remainunconscious. When you go into their haunts they do not appear so muchfrightened as offended. "Why do you intrude?" they seem to say; "theseare our woods;" and they bow you out with all ceremony. Their songs arein keeping with this character; leisurely, unambitious, and brief, butin beauty of voice and in high musical quality excelling all other musicof the woods. However, I would not exaggerate, and I have not found eventhese thrushes perfect. The hermit, who is my favorite of the four, hasa habit of slowly raising and depressing his tail when his mind isdisturbed--a trick of which it is likely he is unconscious, but which, to say the least, is not a mark of good breeding; and the Wilson, whileevery note of his song breathes of spirituality, has nevertheless a mostvulgar alarm call, a petulant, nasal, one-syllabled _yeork_. I do notknow anything so grave against the wood thrush or the Swainson; althoughwhen I have fooled the former with decoy whistles, I have found him moreinquisitive than seemed altogether becoming to a bird of his quality. But character without flaw is hardly to be insisted on by sons of Adam, and, after all deductions are made, the claim of the _Hylocichlæ_ tonoble blood can never be seriously disputed. I have spoken of the fourtogether, but each is clearly distinguished from all the others; andthis I believe to be as true of mental traits as it is of details ofplumage and song. No doubt, in general, they are much alike; we may saythat they have the same qualities; but a close acquaintance will revealthat the qualities have been mixed in different proportions, so that thetotal result in each case is a personality strictly unique. 

And what is true of the _Hylocichlæ_ is true of every bird that flies. Anatomy and dress and even voice aside, who does not feel thedissimilarity between the cat-bird and the robin, and still more thedifference, amounting to contrast, between the cat-bird and thebluebird? Distinctions of color and form are what first strike the eye, but on better acquaintance these are felt to be superficial andcomparatively unimportant; _the_ difference is not one of outsideappearance. It is his gentle, high-bred manner and not his azurecoat, which makes the bluebird; and the cat-bird would be a cat-birdin no matter what garb, so long as he retained his obtrusiveself-consciousness and his prying, busy-body spirit; all of which, beinginterpreted, comes, it may be, to no more than this, "Fine feathersdon't make fine birds. "

Even in families containing many closely allied species, I believe thatevery species has its own proper character, which sufficient intercoursewould enable us to make a due report of. Nobody ever saw a song-sparrowmanifesting the spirit of a chipper, and I trust it will not be in myday that any of our American sparrows are found emulating the virtues oftheir obstreperous immigrant cousin. Of course it is true of birds, asof men, that some have much more individuality than others. But know anybird or any man well enough, and he will prove to be himself, and nobodyelse. To know the ten thousand birds of the world well enough to seehow, in bodily structure, habit of life, and mental characteristics, every one is different from every other is the long and delightful taskwhich is set before the ornithologist. 

But this is not all. The ornithology of the future must be ready to givean answer to the further question how these divergences of anatomy andtemperament originated. How came the chickadee by his endless fund ofhappy spirits? Whence did the towhee derive his equanimity, and thebrown thrush his saturnine temper? The waxwing and the vireo have thesame vocal organs; why should the first do nothing but whisper, whilethe second is so loud and voluble? Why is one bird belligerent andanother peaceable; one barbarous and another civilized; one grave andanother gay? Who can tell? We can make here and there a plausibleconjecture. We know that the behavior of the blue jay varies greatly indifferent parts of the country, in consequence of the differenttreatment which he receives. We judge that the chickadee, from thepeculiarity of his feeding habits, is more certain than most birds areof finding a meal whenever he is hungry; and that, we are assured fromexperience, goes a long way toward making a body contented. We think itlikely that the brown thrush is at some special disadvantage in thisrespect, or has some peculiar enemies warring upon him; in which case itis no more than we might expect that he should be a pessimist. And, withall our ignorance, we are yet sure that everything has a cause, and wewould fain hold by the brave word of Emerson, "Undoubtedly we have noquestions to ask which are unanswerable. "

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This does not harmonize exactly with a statement which Emerson makessomewhere, to the effect that all the stoics were stoics indeed. ButEpictetus had never lived in Concord. 

 IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

 Our music's in the hills. 

 EMERSON. 

 IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

It was early in June when I set out for my third visit to the WhiteMountains, and the ticket-seller and the baggage-master in turn assuredme that the Crawford House, which I named as my destination, was not yetopen. They spoke, too, in the tone which men use when they mentionsomething which, but for uncommon stupidity, you would have knownbeforehand. The kindly sarcasm missed its mark, however. I was awarethat the hotel was not yet ready for the "general public. " But I said tomyself that, for once at least, I was not to be included in thatunfashionably promiscuous company. The vulgar crowd must wait, ofcourse. For the present the mountains, in reporters' language, were "onprivate view;" and despite the ignorance of railway officials, I was oneof the elect. In plainer phrase, I had in my pocket a letter from themanager of the famous inn before mentioned, in which he promised to dowhat he could for my entertainment, even though he was not yet, as hesaid, keeping a hotel. 

Possibly I made too much of a small matter; but it pleased me to feelthat this visit of mine was to be of a peculiarly intimatecharacter, --almost, indeed, as if Mount Washington himself had bidden meto private audience. 

Compelled to wait three or four hours in North Conway, I improved theopportunity to stroll once more down into the lovely Saco meadows, whose"green felicity" was just now at its height. Here, perched upon afence-rail, in the shadow of an elm, I gazed at the snow-crowned MountWashington range, while the bobolinks and savanna sparrows made music onevery side. The song of the bobolinks dropped from above, and themicrophonic tune of the sparrows came up from the grass, --sky and earthkeeping holiday together. Almost I could have believed myself in Eden. But, alas, even the birds themselves were long since shut out of thatgarden of innocence, and as I started back toward the village a crowwent hurrying past me, with a kingbird in hot pursuit. The latter wasmore fortunate than usual, or more plucky; actually alighting on thecrow's back and riding for some distance. I could not distinguish hismotions, --he was too far away for that, --but I wished him joy of hisvictory, and grace to improve it to the full. For it is scandalous thata bird of the crow's cloth should be a thief; and so, although I reckonhim among my friends, --in truth, _because_ I do so, --I am always able totake it patiently when I see him chastised for his fault. Imperfect aswe all know each other to be, it is a comfort to feel that few of us areso altogether bad as not to take more or less pleasure in seeing aneighbor's character improved under a course of moderately painfuldiscipline. 

At Bartlett word came that the passenger car would go no further, butthat a freight train would soon start, on which, if I chose, I couldcontinue my journey. Accordingly, I rode up through the Notch on aplatform car, --a mode of conveyance which I can heartily and in all goodconscience recommend. There is no crowd of exclaiming tourists, thetrain of necessity moves slowly, and the open platform offers noobstruction to the view. For a time I had a seat, which after a littletwo strangers ventured to occupy with me; for "it's an ill wind thatblows nobody good, " and there happened to be on the car one piece ofbaggage, --a coffin, inclosed in a pine box. Our sitting upon it couldnot harm either it or us; nor did we wean any disrespect to the man, whoever he might be, whose body was to be buried in it. Judging thedead charitably, as in duty bound, I had no doubt he would have beenglad if he could have seen his "narrow house" put to such a use. So wemade ourselves comfortable with it, until, at an invisible station, itwas taken off. Then we were obliged to stand, or to retreat into amiserable small box-car behind us. The platform would lurch a little nowand then, and I, for one, was not experienced as a "train hand;" but weall kept our places till the Frankenstein trestle was reached. Here, where for five hundred feet we could look down upon the jagged rockseighty feet below us, one of the trio suddenly had an errand into thebox-car aforesaid, leaving the platform to the other stranger and me. All in all, the ride through the Notch had never before been soenjoyable, I thought; and late in the evening I found myself once againat the Crawford House, and in one of the best rooms, --as well enough Imight be, being the only guest in the house. 

The next morning, before it was really light, I was lying awake lookingat Mount Webster, while through the open window came the loud, cheerysong of the white-throated sparrows. The hospitable creatures seemed tobe inviting me to come at once into their woods; but I knew only toowell that, if the invitation were accepted, they would every one ofthem take to hiding like bashful children. 

The white-throat is one of the birds for whom I cherish a specialliking. On my first trip to the mountains I jumped off the train for amoment at Bartlett, and had hardly touched the ground before I heard hisfamiliar call. Here, then, was Mr. Peabody at home. Season after seasonhe had camped near me in Massachusetts, and many a time I had beengladdened by his lively serenade; now he greeted me from his own nativewoods. So far as my observations have gone, he is common throughout themountain region; and that in spite of the standard guide-book, whichputs him down as patronizing the Glen House almost exclusively. He knowsthe routes too well to need any guide, however, and may be excused forhis ignorance of the official programme. It is wonderful how shy heis, --the more wonderful, because, during his migrations, his manner isso very different. Then, even in a city park you may watch him at yourleisure, while his loud, clear whistle is often to be heard rising abovea din of horse-cars and heavy wagons. But here, in his summer quarters, you will listen to his song a hundred times before you once catch aglimpse of the singer. At first thought it seems strange that a birdshould be most at home when he is away from home; but in the one casehe has nothing but his own safety to consult, while in the other he isthinking of those whose lives are more to him than his own, and whosehiding-place he is every moment on the alert to conceal. 

In Massachusetts we do not expect to find sparrows in deep woods. Theybelong in fields and pastures, in roadside thickets, or by fence-rowsand old stone-walls bordered with barberry bushes and alders. But thesewhite-throats are children of the wilderness. It is one charm of theirmusic that it always comes, or seems to come, from such adistance, --from far up the mountain-side, or from the inaccessibledepths of some ravine. I shall not soon forget its wild beauty as itrose out of the spruce forests below me, while I was enjoying an eveningpromenade, all by myself, over the long, flat summit of Moosilauke. Fromhis habit of singing late at night this sparrow is in some places knownas the nightingale. His more common name is the Peabody bird; while aJefferson man, who was driving me over the Cherry Mountain road, calledhim the Peverly bird, and told me the following story:--

A farmer named Peverly was walking about his fields one spring morning, trying to make up his mind whether the time had come to put in hiswheat. The question was important, and he was still in a deep quandary, when a bird spoke up out of the wood and said, "Sow wheat, Peverly, Peverly, Peverly!--Sow wheat, Peverly, Peverly, Peverly!" That settledthe matter. The wheat was sown, and in the fall a most abundant harvestwas gathered; and ever since then this little feathered oracle has beenknown as the Peverly bird. 

We have improved on the custom of the ancients: they examined a bird'sentrails; we listen to his song. Who says the Yankee is not wiser thanthe Greek?

But I was lying abed in the Crawford House when the voice of_Zonotrichia albicollis_ sent my thoughts thus astray, from Moosilauketo Delphi. That day and the two following were passed in roaming aboutthe woods near the hotel. The pretty painted trillium was in blossom, aswas also the dark purple species, and the hobble-bush showed its broadwhite cymes in all directions. Here and there was the modest littlespring beauty (_Claytonia Caroliniana_), and not far from the Elephant'sHead I discovered my first and only patch of dicentra, with its delicatedissected leaves and its oddly shaped petals of white and pale yellow. The false mitrewort (_Tiarella cordifolia_) was in flower likewise, andthe spur which is cut off Mount Willard by the railroad was all aglowwith rhodora, --a perfect flower-garden, on the monochromatic plan now somuch in vogue. Along the edge of the rocks on the summit of MountWillard a great profusion of the common saxifrage was waving in thefresh breeze:

 "Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. "

On the lower parts of the mountains, the foliage was already well out, while the upper parts were of a fine purplish tint, which at first I wasunable to account for, but which I soon discovered to be due to the factthat the trees at that height were still only in bud. 

A notable feature of the White Mountain forests is the absence of oaksand hickories. These tough, hard woods would seem to have been createdon purpose to stand against wind and cold. But no; the hills are coveredwith the fragile poplars and birches and spruces, with never an oak orhickory among them. I suspect, indeed, that it is the very softness ofthe former which gives them their advantage. For this, as I suppose, iscorrelated with rapid growth; and where the summer is very short, speedmay count for more than firmness of texture, especially during the firstone or two years of the plant's life. Trees, like men, lose in one waywhat they gain in another; or, in other words, they "have the defectsof their qualities. " Probably Paul's confession, "When I am weak, thenam I strong, " is after all only the personal statement of a general law, as true of a poplar as of a Christian. For we all believe (do we not?)that the world is a universe, governed throughout by one Mind, so thatwhatever holds in one part is good everywhere. 

But it was June, and the birds, who were singing from daylight tilldark, would have the most of my attention. It was pleasant to find heretwo comparatively rare warblers, of whom I had before had only casualglimpses, --the mourning warbler and the bay-breasted. The former wassinging his loud but commonplace ditty within a few rods of the piazzaon one side of the house, while his congener, the Marylandyellow-throat, was to be heard on the other side, along with theblack-cap (_Dendroeca striata_), the black-and-yellow, and theCanadian flycatcher. The mourning warbler's song, as I heard it, waslike this: _Whit whit whit_, _wit wit_. The first three notes weredeliberate and loud, on one key, and without accent. The last two werepitched a little lower, and were shorter, with the accent on the firstof the pair; they were thinner in tone than the opening triplet, as ismeant to be indicated by the difference of spelling. [8] Others of thefamily were the golden-crowned thrush, the small-billed water-thrush, the yellow-rumped, the Blackburnian (with his characteristic _zillup_, _zillup_, _zillup_), the black-throated green, the black-throated blue(the last with his loud, coarse _kree_, _kree_, _kree_), the redstart, and the elegant blue yellow-back. Altogether, they were a gorgeouscompany. 

But the chief singers were the olive-backed thrushes and the winterwrens. I should be glad to know on just what principle the olive-backsand their near relatives, the hermits, distribute themselves throughoutthe mountain region. Each species seems to have its own sections, towhich it returns year after year, and the olive-backed, being, as iswell known, the more northern species of the two, naturally prefers themore elevated situations. I have found the latter abundant near theProfile House, and for three seasons it has had exclusive possession ofthe White Mountain Notch, --so far, at least, as I have been able todiscover. [9] The hermits, on the other hand, frequent such places asNorth Conway, Gorham, Jefferson, Bethlehem, and the vicinity of theFlume. Only once have I found the two species in the same neighborhood. That was near the Breezy Point House, on the side of Mount Moosilauke;but this place is so peculiarly romantic, with its noble amphitheatre ofhills, that I could not wonder neither species was willing to yield theground entirely to the other; and even here it was to be noticed thatthe hermits were in or near the sugar-grove, while the Swainsons were inthe forest, far off in an opposite direction. [10]

It is these birds, if any, whose music reaches the ears of the ordinarymountain tourist. Every man who is known among his acquaintances to havea little knowledge of such things is approached now and then with thequestion, "What bird was it, Mr. So-and-So, that I heard singing up inthe mountains? I didn't see him; he was always ever so far off; but hisvoice was wonderful, so sweet and clear and loud!" As a rule it maysafely be taken for granted that such interrogatories refer either tothe Swainson thrush or to the hermit. The inquirer is very likelydisposed to be incredulous when he is told that there are birds in hisown woods whose voice is so like that of his admired New Hampshiresongster that, if he were to hear the two together, he would not atfirst be able to tell the one from the other. He has never heard them, he protests; which is true enough, for he never goes into the woods ofhis own town, or, if by chance he does, he leaves his ears behind him inthe shop. His case is not peculiar. Men and women gaze enraptured at NewHampshire sunsets. How glorious they are, to be sure! What a pity thesun does not sometimes set in Massachusetts!

As a musician the olive-back is certainly inferior to the hermit, and, according to my taste, he is surpassed also by the wood thrush and theWilson; but he is a magnificent singer, for all that, and when he isheard in the absence of the others it is often hard to believe that anyone of them could do better. A good idea of the rhythm and length of hissong may be gained by pronouncing somewhat rapidly the words, "I love, Ilove, I love you, " or, as it sometimes runs, "I love, I love, I love youtruly. " How literal this translation is I am not scholar enough todetermine, but without question it gives the sense substantially. 

The winter wrens were less numerous than the thrushes, I think, but, like them, they sang at all hours of the day, and seemed to be welldistributed throughout the woods. We can hardly help asking how it isthat two birds so very closely related as the house wren and the winterwren should have been chosen haunts so extremely diverse, --the onepreferring door-yards in thickly settled villages, the other keepingstrictly to the wildest of all wild places. But whatever theexplanation, we need not wish the fact itself different. Comparativelyfew ever hear the winter wren's song, to be sure (for you will hardlyget it from a hotel piazza), but it is not the less enjoyed on thataccount. There is such a thing as a bird's making himself too common;and probably it is true even of the great _prima donna_ that it is notthose who live in the house with her who find most pleasure in hermusic. Moreover, there is much in time and circumstance. You hear a songin the village street, and pass along unmoved; but stand in the silenceof the forest, with your feet in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis, and the same song goes to your very soul. 

The great distinction of the winter wren's melody is its marked rhythmand accent, which give it a martial, fife-like character. Note tumblesover note in the true wren manner, and the strain comes to an end sosuddenly that for the first few times you are likely to think that thebird has been interrupted. In the middle is a long in-drawn note, muchlike one of the canary's. The odd little creature does not get far awayfrom the ground. I have never seen him sing from a living tree or bush, but always from a stump or a log, or from the root or branch of anoverturned tree, --from something, at least, of nearly his own color. [11]The song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, and in my ears ithas the further merit of being forever associated with reminiscences oframblings among the White Hills. How well I remember an early morninghour at Profile Lake, when it came again and again across the water fromthe woods on Mount Cannon, under the Great Stone Face!

Whichever way I walked, I was sure of the society of the snow-birds. They hopped familiarly across the railroad track in front of theCrawford House, and on the summit of Mount Washington were scurryingabout among the rocks, opening and shutting their pretty white-borderedfans. Half-way up Mount Willard I sat down to rest on a stone, and aftera minute or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet, and ran across theroad, trailing her wings. I looked under the bank for her nest, but, tomy surprise, could find nothing of it. So I made sure of knowing theplace again, and continued my tramp. Returning two hours later, I satdown upon the same bowlder, and watched for the bird to appear asbefore; but she had gathered courage from my former failure, --or so itseemed, --and I waited in vain till I rapped upon the ground over herhead. Then she scrambled out and limped away, repeating her innocent buthackneyed ruse. This time I was resolved not to be baffled. The nest wasthere, and I would find it. So down on my knees I got, and scrutinizedthe whole place most carefully. But though I had marked the precisespot, there was no sign of a nest. I was about giving over the searchignominiously, when I descried a slight opening between the overhangingroof of the bank and a layer of earth which some roots held in placeclose under it. Into this slit I inserted my fingers, and there, entirely out of sight, was the nest full of eggs. No man could ever havefound it, had the bird been brave and wise enough to keep her seat. However, I had before this noticed that the snow-bird, while oftenextremely clever in choosing a building site, is seldom very skillful inkeeping a secret. I saw him one day standing on the side of the sameMount Willard road, [12] gesticulating and scolding with all his might, as much, as to say, "Please don't stop here! Go straight along, I beg ofyou! Our nest is right under this bank!" And one glance under the bankshowed that I had not misinterpreted his demonstrations. For all that, Ido not feel like taking a lofty tone in passing judgment upon Junco. Heis not the only one whose wisdom is mixed with foolishness. There is atleast one other person of whom the same is true, --a person of whom Ihave nevertheless a very good opinion, and with whom I am, or ought tobe, better acquainted than I am with any animal that wears feathers. 

The prettiest snow-bird's nest I ever saw was built beside the Crawfordbridle path, on Mount Clinton, just before the path comes out of thewoods at the top. It was lined with hair-moss (a species of_Polytrichum_) of a bright orange color, and with its four or fivewhite, lilac-spotted eggs made so attractive a picture that I wasconstrained to pause a moment to look at it, even though I had threemiles of a steep, rough footpath to descend, with a shower threateningto overtake me before I could reach the bottom. I wondered whether thearchitects really possessed an eye for color, or had only stumbled uponthis elegant bit of decoration. On the whole, it seemed more charitableto conclude the former; and not only more charitable, but morescientific as well. For, if I understand the matter aright, Mr. Darwinand his followers have settled upon the opinion that birds do display anunmistakable fondness for bright tints; that, indeed, the males of manyspecies wear brilliant plumage for no other reason than that their matesprefer them in that dress. Moreover, if a bird in New South Wales adornsher bower with shells and other ornaments, why may not our littleNorthern darling beautify her nest with such humbler materials as hersurroundings offer? On reflection, I am more and more convinced that thebirds knew what they were doing; probably the female the moment shediscovered the moss, called to her mate, "Oh, look, how lovely! Do, mydear, let's line our nest with it!"

This artistic structure was found on the anniversary of the battle ofBunker Hill, a day which I had been celebrating, as best I could, byclimbing the highest hill in New England. Plunging into the woods withinfifty yards of the Crawford House, I had gone up and up, and on and on, through a magnificent forest, and then over more magnificent rockyheights, until I stood at last on the platform of the hotel at thesummit. True, the path, which I had never traveled before, was wet andslippery, with stretches of ice and snow here and there; but theshifting view was so grand, the atmosphere so bracing, and the solitudeso impressive that I enjoyed every step, till it came to clambering upthe Mount Washington cone over the bowlders. At this point, to speakfrankly, I began to hope that the ninth mile would prove to be a shortone. The guide-books are agreed in warning the visitor against makingthis ascent without a companion, and no doubt they are right in sodoing. A crippling accident would almost inevitably be fatal, while forseveral miles the trail is so indistinct that it would be difficult, ifnot impossible, to follow it in a fog. And yet, if one is willing totake the risk (and is not so unfortunate as never to have learned how tokeep himself company), he will find a very considerable compensation inthe peculiar pleasure to be experienced in being absolutely alone abovethe world. For myself, I was shut up to going in this way or not goingat all; and a Bostonian must do something patriotic on the Seventeenthof June. But for all that, if the storm which chased me down themountains in the afternoon, clouding first Mount Washington and thenMount Pleasant behind me, and shutting me in-doors all the next day, hadstarted an hour sooner, or if I had been detained an hour later, it isnot impossible that I might now be writing in a different strain. 

My reception at the top was none of the heartiest. The hotel was tightlyclosed, while a large snow-bank stood guard before the door. However, Iinvited myself into the Signal Service Station, and made my wants knownto one of the officers, who very kindly spread a table with such thingsas he and his companions had just been eating. It would be out of placeto say much about the luncheon: the bread and butter were good, and thepudding was interesting. I had the cook's word for it that the latterwas made of corn-starch, but he volunteered no explanation of its color, which was nearly that of chocolate. As a working hypothesis I adoptedthe molasses or brown-sugar theory, but a brief experiment (as brief aspoliteness permitted) indicated a total absence of any saccharineprinciple. But then, what do we climb mountains for, if not to seesomething out of the common course? On the whole, if this department ofour national government is ever on trial for extravagance in the matterof high living, I shall be moved to offer myself as a competent witnessfor the defense. 

A company of chimney-swifts were flying criss-cross over the summit, andone of the men said that he presumed they lived there. I took theliberty to doubt his opinion, however. To me it seemed nothing but ablunder that they should be there even for an hour. There could hardlybe many insects at that height, I thought, and I had abundant cause toknow that the woods below were full of them. I knew, also, that theswifts knew it; for while I had been prowling about between Crawford'sand Fabyan's, they had several times shot by my head so closely that Ihad instinctively fallen to calculating the probable consequences of acollision. But, after all, the swift is no doubt a far betterentomologist than I am, though he has never heard of Packard's Guide. Possibly there are certain species of insects, and those of a peculiarlydelicate savor, which are to be obtained only at about this altitude. 

The most enjoyable part of the Crawford path is the five miles from thetop of Mount Clinton to the foot of the Mount Washington cone. Alongthis ridge I was delighted to find in blossom two beautiful Alpineplants, which I had missed in previous (July) visits, --the diapensia(_Diapensia Lapponica_) and the Lapland rose-bay (_RhododendronLapponicum_), --and to get also a single forward specimen of _Potentillafrigida_. Here and there was a humblebee, gathering honey from the smallpurple catkins of the prostrate willows, now in full bloom. (Ratherhigh-minded humblebees, they seemed, more than five thousand feet abovethe sea!) Professional entomologists (the chimney-swift, perhaps, included) may smile at my simplicity, but I was surprised to find this"animated torrid zone, " this "insect lover of the sun, " in such aGreenland climate. Did he not know that his own poet had, described himas "hot midsummer's petted crone"? But possibly he was equally surprisedat my appearance. He might even have taken his turn at quotingEmerson:--

 "Pants up hither the spruce clerk From South Cove and City Wharf"?[13]

Of the two, he was unquestionably the more at home, for he was livingwhere in forty-eight hours I should have found my death. So much is_Bombus_ better than a man. 

In a little pool of water, which seemed to be nothing but a transientpuddle caused by the melting snow, was a tiny fish. I asked him by whatmiracle he got there, but he could give no explanation. He, too, mightwell enough have joined the noble company of Emersonians:--

 "I never thought to ask, I never knew; But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me here brought you. "

Almost at the very top of Mount Clinton I was saluted by the familiarditty of the Nashville warbler. I could hardly believe my ears; butthere was no mistake, for the bird soon appeared in plain sight. Had itbeen one of the hardier-seeming species, the yellow-rumped for example, I should not have thought it very strange; but this dainty_Helminthophaga_, so common in the vicinity of Boston, did appear to beout of his latitude, summering here on Alpine heights. With a good pairof wings, and the whole continent to choose from, he surely might havefound some more congenial spot than this in which to bring up his littlefamily. I took his presence to be only an individual freak, but asubsequent visitor, who made the ascent from the Glen, reported the samespecies on that side also, and at about the same height. 

These signs of life on bleak mountain ridges are highly interesting andsuggestive. The fish, the humblebees, the birds, and a mouse whichscampered away to its hole amid the rocks, --all these might have foundbetter living elsewhere. But Nature will have her world full. Stuntedlife is better than none, she thinks. So she plants her forests ofspruces, and keeps them growing, where, with all their efforts, theycannot get above the height of a man's knee. There is no beauty aboutthem, no grace. They sacrifice symmetry and everything else for the sakeof bare existence, reminding one of Satan's remark, "All that a man hathwill he give for his life. "

Very admirable are the devices by which vegetation maintains itselfagainst odds. Everybody notices that many of the mountain species, likethe diapensia, the rose-bay, the Greenland sandwort (called the mountaindaisy by the Summit House people, for some inscrutable reason), and thephyllodoce, have blossoms disproportionately large and handsome; as ifthey realized that, in order to attract their indispensable allies, theinsects, to these inhospitable regions, they must offer them somespecial inducements. Their case is not unlike that of a certain mountainhotel which might be named, which happens to be poorly situated, butwhich keeps itself full, nevertheless, by the peculiar excellence of its_cuisine_. 

It does not require much imagination to believe that these hardyvegetable mountaineers love their wild, desolate dwelling-places astruly as do the human residents of the region. An old man in Bethlehemtold me that sometimes, during the long, cold winter, he felt thatperhaps it would be well for him, now his work was done, to sell his"place" and go down to Boston to live, near his brother. "But then, " headded, "you know it's dangerous transplanting an old tree; you're likelyas not to kill it. " Whatever we have, in this world, we must pay forwith the loss of something else. The bitter must be taken with thesweet, be we plants, animals, or men. These thoughts recurred to me aday or two later, as I lay on the summit of Mount Agassiz, in the sunand out of the wind, gazing down into the Franconia Valley, then in allits June beauty. Nestled under the lee of the mountain, but farther fromthe base, doubtless, than it seemed from my point of view, was a smalldwelling, scarcely better than a shanty. Two or three young childrenwere playing about the door, and near them was the man of the housesplitting wood. The air was still enough for me to hear every blow, although it reached me only as the axe was again over the man's head, ready for the next descent. It was a charming picture, --the broad, greenvalley full of sunshine and peace, and the solitary cottage, from whosedoorstep might be seen in one direction the noble Mount Washingtonrange, and in another the hardly less noble Franconias. How easy to livesimply and well in such a grand seclusion! But soon there came a thoughtof Wordsworth's sonnet, addressed to just such a mood, "Yes, there isholy pleasure in thine eye, " and I felt at once the truth of hisadmonition. What if the cottage really were mine, --mine to spend alifetime in? How quickly the poetry would turn to prose!

An hour afterwards, on my way back to the Sinclair House, I passed agroup of men at work on the highway. One of them was a little apart fromthe rest, and out of a social impulse I accosted him with the remark, "Isuppose, in heaven, the streets never will need mending. " Quick asthought came the reply: "Well, I hope not. If I ever _get_ there, Idon't want to work on the _road_. " Here spoke universal human nature, which finds its strong argument for immortality in its discontent withmatters as they now are. The one thing we are all sure of is that wewere born for something better than our present employment; and eventhose who school themselves most religiously in the virtue ofcontentment know very well how to define that grace so as not toexclude from it a comfortable mixture of "divine dissatisfaction. " Wellfor us if we are still able to stand in our place and do faithfully ourallotted task, like the mountain spruces and the Bethlehemiteroad-mender. 

FOOTNOTES:

[8] He is said to have another song, beautiful and wren-like; but that Ihave never heard. 

[9] This is making no account of the gray-cheeked thrushes, who arefound only near the _tops_ of the mountains. 

[10] I have since found both species at Willoughby Lake, Vermont and theveery with them. 

[11] True when written, but now needing to be qualified by oneexception. See p. 226. 

[12] Beside this road (in June, 1883) I found a nest of theyellow-bellied flycatcher (_Empidonax flaviventris_). It was built atthe base of a decayed stump, in a little depression between two roots, and was partially overarched with growing moss. It contained foureggs, --white, spotted with brown. I called upon the bird half a dozentimes or more, and found her a model "keeper at home. " On one occasionshe allowed my hand to come within two or three inches of her bill. Inevery case she flew off without any outcry or ruse, and once at leastshe fell immediately to fly-catching with admirable philosophy. So faras I know, this is the only nest of the species ever found in NewEngland outside of Maine. But it is proper to add that I did not capturethe bird. 

[13] But by this time the clerk's appearance was, to say the least, notreprehensibly "spruce. " For one thing, what with the moisture and thesharp stones, he was already becoming jealous of his shoes, lest theyshould not hold together till he could get back to the Crawford House. 

 PHILLIDA AND CORIDON. 

 Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song. 

 SPENSER. 

 Much ado there was, God wot: He would love, and she would not. 

 NICHOLAS BRETON. 

 PHILLIDA AND CORIDON. 

The happiness of birds, heretofore taken for granted, and long ago putto service in a proverb, is in these last days made a matter of doubt. It transpires that they are engaged without respite in a struggle forexistence, --a struggle so fierce that at least two of them perish everyyear for one that survives. [14] How, then, can they be otherwise thanmiserable?

There is no denying the struggle, of course; nor need we question somereal effect produced by it upon the cheerfulness of the participants. The more rationalistic of the smaller species, we may be sure, find ithard to reconcile the existence of hawks and owls with the doctrine ofan all-wise Providence; while even the most simple-minded of them canscarcely fail to realize that a world in which one is liable any day tobe pursued by a boy with a shot-gun is not in any strict senseparadisiacal. 

And yet, who knows the heart of a bird? A child, possibly, or a poet;certainly not a philosopher. And happiness, too, --is that something ofwhich the scientific mind can render us a quite adequate description? Oris it, rather, a wayward, mysterious thing, coming often when leastexpected, and going away again when, by all tokens, it ought to remain?How is it with ourselves? Do we wait to weigh all the good and evil ofour state, to take an accurate account of it _pro_ and _con_, before weallow ourselves to be glad or sorry? Not many of us, I think. Mortuarytables may demonstrate that half the children born in this country failto reach the age of twenty years. But what then? Our "expectation oflife" is not based upon statistics. The tables may be correct, for aughtwe know; but they deal with men in general and on the average; they haveno message for you and me individually. And it seems not unlikely thatbirds may be equally illogical; always expecting to live, and not die, and often giving themselves up to impulses of gladness without stoppingto inquire whether, on grounds of absolute reason, these impulses are tobe justified. Let us hope so, at all events, till somebody proves thecontrary. 

But even looking at the subject a little more philosophically, we maysay--and be thankful to say it--that the joy of life is not dependentupon comfort, nor yet upon safety. The essential matter is that theheart be engaged. Then, though we be toiling up the Matterhorn, or sweptalong in the rush of a bayonet charge, we may still find existence notonly endurable, but in the highest degree exhilarating. On the otherhand, if there is no longer anything we care for; if enthusiasm is dead, and hope also, then, though we have all that money can buy, suicide isperhaps the only fitting action that is left for us, --unless, perchance, we are still able to pass the time in writing treatises to prove thateverybody else ought to be as unhappy as ourselves. 

Birds have many enemies and their full share of privation, but I do notbelieve that they often suffer from _ennui_. Having "neither storehousenor barn, "[15] they are never in want of something to do. From sunrisetill noon there is the getting of breakfast, then from noon till sunsetthe getting of dinner, --both out-of-doors, and without any trouble ofcookery or dishes, --a kind of perpetual picnic. What could be simpleror more delightful? Carried on in this way, eating is no longer thecoarse and sensual thing we make it, with our set meal-times andelaborate preparations. 

Country children know that there are two ways to go berrying. Accordingto the first of these you stroll into the pasture in the cool of theday, and at your leisure pick as many as you choose of the ripest andlargest of the berries, putting every one into your mouth. This isagreeable. According to the second, you carry a basket, which you areexpected to bring home again well filled. And this method--well, tasteswill differ, but following the good old rule for judging in such cases, I must believe that most unsophisticated persons prefer the other. Thehand-to-mouth process certainly agrees best with our idea of life inEden; and, what is more to the purpose now, it is the one which thebirds, still keeping the garden instead of tilling the ground, continueto follow. 

That this unworldliness of the birds has any religious or theologicalsignificance I do not myself suppose. Still, as anybody may see, thereare certain very plain Scripture texts on their side. Indeed, if birdswere only acute theologians, they would unquestionably proceed to turnthese texts (since they find it so easy to obey them) into the basis ofa "system of truth. " Other parts of the Bible must be _interpreted_, tobe sure (so the theory would run); but _these_ statements mean just whatthey say, and whoever meddles with them is carnally minded and arationalist. 

Somebody will object, perhaps, that, with our talk about a "perpetualpicnic, " we are making a bird's life one cloudless holiday;contradicting what we have before admitted about a struggle forexistence, and leaving out of sight altogether the seasons of scarcity, the storms, and the biting cold. But we intend no such foolishrecantation. These hardships are real enough, and serious enough. Whatwe maintain is that evils of this kind are not necessarily inconsistentwith enjoyment, and may even give to life an additional zest. It is amatter of every-day observation that the people who have nothing to doexcept to "live well" (as the common sarcasm has it) are not always themost cheerful; while there are certain diseases, like pessimism and thegout, which seem appointed to wait on luxury and idleness, --as thoughnature were determined to have the scales kept somewhat even. And surelythis divine law of compensation has not left the innocent birdsunprovided for, --the innocent birds of whom it was said, "Your heavenlyFather feedeth them. " How must the devoted pair exult, when, in spiteof owls and hawks, squirrels and weasels, small boys and full-grownoölogists, they have finally reared a brood of offspring! The longuncertainty and the thousand perils only intensify the joy. In truth, sofar as this world is concerned, the highest bliss is never to be hadwithout antecedent sorrow; and even of heaven itself we may not scrupleto say that, if there are painters there, they probably feel obliged toput some shadows into their pictures. 

But of course (and this is what we have been coming to through this longintroduction), --of course our friends of the air are happiest in theseason of mating; happiest, and therefore most attractive to us who findour pleasure in studying them. In spring, of all times of the year, itseems a pity that everybody should not turn ornithologist. For "allmankind love a lover;" and the world, in consequence, has given itselfup to novel-reading, not knowing, unfortunately, how much better that_rôle_ is taken by the birds than by the common run of story-bookheroes. 

People whose notions of the subject are derived from attending to theantics of our imported sparrows have no idea how delicate and beautifula thing a real feathered courtship is. To tell the truth, theseforeigners have associated too long and too intimately with men, andhave fallen far away from their primal innocence. There is no need todescribe their actions. The vociferous and most unmannerly importunityof the suitor, and the correspondingly spiteful rejection of hisovertures by the little vixen on whom his affections are for the momentplaced, --these we have all seen to our hearts' discontent. 

The sparrow will not have been brought over the sea for nothing, however, if his bad behavior serves to heighten our appreciation of ourown native songsters, with their "perfect virtues" and "manners for theheart's delight. "

The American robin, for instance, is far from being a bird ofexceptional refinement. His nest is rude, not to say slovenly, and hisgeneral deportment is unmistakably common. But watch him when he goesa-wooing, and you will begin to feel quite a new respect for him. Howgently he approaches his beloved! How carefully he avoids ever comingdisrespectfully near! No sparrow-like screaming, no dancing about, nomelodramatic gesticulation. If she moves from one side of the tree tothe other, or to the tree adjoining, he follows in silence. Yet everymovement is a petition, an assurance that his heart is hers and evermust be. The action is extremely simple; there is nothing of which tomake an eloquent description; but I should pity the man who couldwitness it with indifference. Not that the robin's suit is alwayscarried on in the same way; he is much too versatile for that. On oneoccasion, at least, I saw him holding himself absolutely motionless, ina horizontal posture, staring at his sweetheart as if he would charm herwith his gaze, and emitting all the while a subdued hissing sound. Thesignificance of this conduct I do not profess to have understood; itended with his suddenly darting at the female, who took wing and waspursued. Not improbably the robin finds the feminine nature somewhatfickle, and counts it expedient to vary his tactics accordingly; for itis getting to be more and more believed that, in kind at least, theintelligence of the lower animals is not different from ours. 

I once came unexpectedly upon a wood thrush, who was in the midst of aperformance very similar to this of the robin standing on the deadbranch of a tree, with his crown feathers erect, his bill set wide open, and his whole body looking as rigid as death. His mate, as I perceivedthe next moment, was not far away, on the same limb. If he wasattempting fascination, he had gone very clumsily about it, I thought, unless his mate's idea of beauty was totally different from mine; for Icould hardly keep from laughing at his absurd appearance. It did notoccur to me till afterwards that he had perhaps heard of Othello'smethod, and was at that moment acting out a story

 "of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery. "

How much depends upon the point of view! Here was I, ready to laugh;while poor Desdemona only thought, "'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrouspitiful. " Dear sympathetic soul! Let us hope that she was never calledto play out the tragedy. 

Two things are very noticeable during the pairing season, --the scarcityof females and their indifference. Every one of them seems to have atleast two admirers dangling after her, [16] while she is almost sure tocarry herself as if a wedding were the last thing she would ever consentto think of; and that not because of bashfulness, but from downrightaversion. The observer begins to suspect that the fair creatures havereally entered into some sort of no-marriage league, and that there arenot to be any nests this year, nor any young birds. But by and by hediscovers that somehow, he cannot surmise how, --it must have been whenhis eyes were turned the other way, --the scene is entirely changed, themaidens are all wedded, and even now the nests are being got ready. 

I watched a trio of cat-birds in a clump of alder bushes by theroadside; two males, almost as a matter of course, "paying attentions"to one female. Both suitors were evidently in earnest; each hoped tocarry off the prize, and perhaps felt that he should be miserableforever if he were disappointed; and yet, on their part, everything wasbeing done decently and in order. So far as I saw, there was nodisposition to quarrel. Only let the dear creature choose one of them, and the other would take his broken heart away. So, always at a modestremove, they followed her about from bush to bush, entreating her inmost loving and persuasive tones to listen to their suit. But she, allthis time, answered every approach with a snarl; she would never haveanything to do with either of them; she disliked them both, and onlywished they would leave her to herself. This lasted as long as I stayedto watch. Still I had little doubt she fully intended to accept one ofthem, and had even made up her mind already which it should be. Sheknew enough, I felt sure, to calculate the value of a proper maidenlyreluctance. How could her mate be expected to rate her at her worth, ifshe allowed herself to be won too easily? Besides, she could afford notto be in haste, seeing she had a choice of two. 

What a comfortably simple affair the matrimonial question is with thefeminine cat-bird! Her wooers are all of equally good family and allequally rich. There is literally nothing for her to do but to look intoher own heart and choose. No temptation has she to sell herself for thesake of a fashionable name or a fine house, or in order to gratify theprejudice of father or mother. As for a marriage settlement, she knowsneither the name nor the thing. In fact, marriage in her thought is asimple union of hearts, with no taint of anything mercantile about it. Happy cat-bird! She perhaps imagines that human marriages are of thesame ideal sort!

I have spoken of the affectionate language of these dusky lovers; but itwas noticeable that they did not sing, although, to have fulfilled thecommon idea of such an affair, they certainly should have been doing so, and each trying his best to outsing the other. Possibly there hadalready been such a tournament before my arrival; or, for aught I know, this particular female may have given out that she had no ear formusic. 

In point of fact, however, there was nothing peculiar in their conduct. No doubt, in the earlier stages of a bird's attachment he is likely toexpress his passion musically; but later he is not content to warblefrom a tree-top. There are things to be said which cannot appropriatelybe spoken at long range; and unless my study of novels has been tolittle purpose, all this agrees well with the practices of humangallants. Do not these begin by singing under the lady's window, or bysending verses to her? and are not such proceedings intended to preparethe way, as speedily as possible, for others of a more satisfying, though it may be of a less romantic nature?

Bearing this in mind, we may be able to account, in part at least, forthe inexperienced observer's disappointment when, fresh from the perusalof (for example) the thirteenth chapter of Darwin's "Descent of Man, " hegoes into the woods to look about for himself. He expects to find hereand there two or three songsters, each in turn doing his utmost tosurpass the brilliancy and power of the other's music; while a feminineauditor sits in full view, preparing to render her verdict, and rewardthe successful competitor with her own precious self. This would be apretty picture. Unfortunately, it is looked for in vain. The two orthree singers may be found, likely enough; but the female, if she beindeed within hearing, is modestly hidden away somewhere in the bushes, and our student is none the wiser. Let him watch as long as he please, he will hardly see the prize awarded. 

Nevertheless he need not grudge the time thus employed; not, at anyrate, if he be sensitive to music. For it will be found that birds haveat least one attribute of genius: they can do their best only on greatoccasions. Our brown thrush, for instance, is a magnificent singer, albeit he is not of the best school, being too "sensational" to suit themost exacting taste. His song is a grand improvisation: a good dealjumbled, to be sure, and without any recognizable form or theme; andyet, like a Liszt rhapsody, it perfectly answers its purpose, --that is, it gives the performer full scope to show what he can do with hisinstrument. You may laugh a little, if you like, at an occasionalgrotesque or overwrought passage, but unless you are well used to it youwill surely be astonished. Such power and range of voice; such startlingtransitions; such endless variety! And withal such boundless enthusiasmand almost incredible endurance! Regarded as pure music, one strain ofthe hermit thrush is to my mind worth the whole of it; just as a singlemovement of Beethoven's is better than a world of Liszt transcriptions. But in its own way it is unsurpassable. 

Still, though this is a meagre and quite unexaggerated account of theordinary song of the brown thrush, I have discovered that even he can beoutdone--by himself. One morning in early May I came upon three birds ofthis species, all singing at once, in a kind of jealous frenzy. As theysang they continually shifted from tree to tree, and one in particular(the one nearest to where I stood) could hardly be quiet a moment. Oncehe sang with full power while on the ground (or close to it, for he wasjust then behind a low bush), after which he mounted to the very tip ofa tall pine, which bent beneath his weight. In the midst of thehurly-burly one of the trio suddenly sounded the whip-poor-will's calltwice, --an absolutely perfect reproduction. [17]

The significance of all this sound and fury, --what the prize was, ifany, and who obtained it, --this another can conjecture as well asmyself. I know no more than old Kaspar:----

 "'Why, that I cannot tell, ' said he, But 'twas a famous victory. '"

As I turned to come away, the contest all at once ceased, and thesilence of the woods, or what seemed like silence, was reallyimpressive. The chewinks and field sparrows were singing, but it waslike the music of a village singer after Patti; or, to make thecomparison less unjust, like the Pastoral Symphony of Handel after aWagner tempest. 

It is curious how deeply we are sometimes affected by a very triflingoccurrence. I have remembered many times a slight scene in which threepurple finches were the actors. Of the two males, one was in full adultplumage of bright crimson, while the other still wore his youthful suitof brown. First, the older bird suspended himself in mid air, and sangmost beautifully; dropping, as he concluded, to a perch beside thefemale. Then the younger candidate, who was already sitting near by, took his turn, singing nearly or quite as well as his rival, but withoutquitting the branch, though his wings quivered. I saw no more. Yet, as Isay, I have often since thought of the three birds, and wondered whetherthe bright feathers and the flying song carried the day against theyounger suitor. I fear they did. Sometimes, too, I have queried whetheryoung birds (who none the less are of age to marry) can be so very meekor so very dull as never to rebel against the fashion that only the oldfellows shall dress handsomely; and I have tried in vain to imagine themutterings, deep and loud, which such a law would excite in certainother quarters. It pains me to say it, but I suspect that taxationwithout representation would seem a small injustice, in comparison. 

Like these linnets in the exceptional interest they excited were twolarge seabirds, who suddenly appeared circling about over the woods, asI was taking a solitary walk on a Sunday morning in April. One of themwas closely pursuing the other; not as though he were trying to overtakeher, but rather as though he were determined to keep her company. Theyswept now this way, now that, --now lost to sight, and now reappearing;and once they passed straight over my head, so that I heard thewhistling of their wings. Then they were off, and I saw them no more. They came from far, and by night they were perhaps a hundred leaguesaway. But I followed them with my blessing, and to this day I feeltoward them a little as I suppose we all do toward a certain fewstrangers whom we have met here and there in our journeyings, andchatted with for an hour or two. We had never seen them before; if welearned their names we have long ago forgotten them; but somehow thepersons themselves keep a place in our memory, and even in ouraffection. 

 "I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt; Yet a hand's breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about:

 "For there I picked up on the heather, And there I put inside my breast, A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest. "

Since we cannot ask birds for an explanation of their conduct, we havenothing for it but to steal their secrets, as far as possible, bypatient and stealthy watching. In this way I hope, sooner or later, tofind out what the golden-winged woodpecker means by the shout with whichhe makes the fields reëcho in the spring, especially in the latter halfof April. I have no doubt it has something to do with the process ofmating, but it puzzles me to guess just what the message can be whichrequires to be published so loudly. Such a stentorian, long-winded cry!You wonder where the bird finds breath for such an effort, and think hemust be a very ungentle lover, surely. But withhold your judgment for afew days, till you see him and his mate gamboling about the branches ofsome old tree, calling in soft, affectionate tones, _Wick-a-wick, wick-a-wick_; then you will confess that, whatever failings thegolden-wing may have, he is not to be charged with insensibility. Thefact is that our "yellow-hammer" has a genius for noise. When he is_very_ happy he drums. Sometimes, indeed, he marvels how birds whohaven't this resource are able to get through the world at all. Norought we to think it strange if in his love-making he finds great usefor this his crowning accomplishment. True, we have nowhere read of ahuman lover's serenading his mistress with a drum; but we must rememberwhat creatures of convention men are, and that there is no inherentreason why a drum should not serve as well as a flute for such apurpose. 

 "All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, _All_ are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. "

I saw two of these flickers clinging to the trunk of a shell-bark tree;which, by the way, is a tree after the woodpecker's own heart. One wasperhaps fifteen feet above the other, and before each was a strip ofloose bark, a sort of natural drum-head. First, the lower one "beat hismusic out, " rather softly. Then, as he ceased, and held his head backto listen, the other answered him; and so the dialogue went on. Evidently, they were already mated, and were now renewing their mutualvows; for birds, to their praise be it spoken, believe in courtshipafter marriage. The day happened to be Sunday, and it did occur to methat possibly this was the woodpeckers' ritual, --a kind of High Churchservice, with antiphonal choirs. But I dismissed the thought; for, onthe whole, the shouting seems more likely to be diagnostic, and in spiteof his gold-lined wings, I have set the flicker down as almost certainlyan old-fashioned Methodist. 

Speaking of courtship after marriage, I am reminded of a spottedsandpiper, whose capers I amused myself with watching, one day lastJune, on the shore of Saco Lake. As I caught sight of him, he wasstraightening himself up, with a pretty, self-conscious air, at the sametime spreading his white-edged tail, and calling, _Tweet, tweet, tweet_. [18] Afterwards he got upon a log, where, with head erect andwings thrown forward and downward, he ran for a yard or two, calling asbefore. This trick seemed especially to please him, and was severaltimes repeated. He ran rapidly, and with a comical prancing movement;but nothing he did was half so laughable as the behavior of his mate, who all this while dressed her feathers without once deigning to look ather spouse's performance. Undoubtedly they had been married for severalweeks, and she was, by this time, well used to his nonsense. It must bea devoted husband, I fancy, who continues to offer attentions when theyare received in such a spirit. 

Walking a log is a somewhat common practice with birds. I once detectedour little golden-crowned thrush showing off in this way to his mate, who stood on the ground close at hand. In his case the head was loweredinstead of raised, and the general effect was heightened by hiscuriously precise gait, which even on ordinary occasions is enough toprovoke a smile. 

Not improbably every species of birds has its own code of etiquette;unwritten, of course, but carefully handed down from father to son, andfaithfully observed. Nor is it cause for wonder if, in our ignoranteyes, some of these "society manners" look a little ridiculous. Even theusages of fashionable human circles have not always escaped the laughterof the profane. 

I was standing on the edge of a small thicket, observing a pair ofcuckoos as they made a breakfast out of a nest of tent caterpillars (itwas a feast rather than a common meal; for the caterpillars wereplentiful, and, as I judged, just at their best, being about halfgrown), when a couple of scarlet tanagers appeared upon the scene. Thefemale presently selected a fine strip of cedar bark, and started offwith it, sounding a call to her handsome husband, who at once followedin her wake. I thought, What a brute, to leave his wife to build thehouse! But he, plainly enough, felt that in escorting her back and forthhe was doing all that ought to be expected of any well-bred, scarlet-coated tanager. And the lady herself, if one might inferanything from her tone and demeanor, was of the same opinion. I mentionthis trifling occurrence, not to put any slight upon _Pyranga rubra_(who am I, that I should accuse so gentle and well dressed a bird of badmanners?), but merely as an example of the way in which featheredpoliteness varies. In fact, it seems not unlikely that the male tanagermay abstain on principle from taking any active part in constructing thenest, lest his fiery color should betray its whereabouts. As for hiskindness and loyalty, I only wish I could feel as sure of one half thehuman husbands whom I meet. 

It would be very ungallant of me, however, to leave my readers tounderstand that the female bird is always so unsympathetic as most ofthe descriptions thus far given would appear to indicate. In my memoryare several scenes, any one of which, if I could put it on paper as Isaw it, would suffice to correct such an erroneous impression. In one ofthese the parties were a pair of chipping sparrows. Never was man sochurlish that his heart would not have been touched with the vision oftheir gentle but rapturous delight. As they chased each other gayly frombranch to branch and from tree to tree, they flew with that delicate, affected movement of the wings which birds are accustomed to use at suchtimes, and which, perhaps, bears the same relation to their ordinaryflight that dancing does to the every-day walk of men and women. The twoseemed equally enchanted, and both sang. Little they knew of the"struggle for existence" and the "survival of the fittest. " Adam andEve, in Paradise, were never more happy. 

A few weeks later, taking an evening walk, I was stopped by the sight ofa pair of cedar-birds on a stone wall. They had chosen a convenient flatstone, and were hopping about upon it, pausing every moment or two toput their little bills together. What a loving ecstasy possessed them!Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sounded a faint lisping note, andmotioned for another kiss. But there is no setting forth the ineffablegrace and sweetness of their chaste behavior. I looked and looked, tilla passing carriage frightened them away. They were only commoncedar-birds; if I were to see them again I should not know them; but ifmy pen were equal to my wish, they should be made immortal. 

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Wallace, _Natural Selection_, p. 30. 

[15] The shrike lays up grasshoppers and sparrows, and the Californiawoodpecker hoards great numbers of acorns, but it is still in dispute, Ibelieve, whether thrift is the motive with either of them. Consideringwhat has often been done in similar cases, we may think it surprisingthat the Scripture text above quoted (together with its exegeticalparallel, Matthew vi. 26) has never been brought into court to settlethe controversy; but to the best of my knowledge it never has been. 

[16] So near do birds come to Mr. Ruskin's idea that "a girl worthanything ought to have always half a dozen or so of suitors under vowfor her. "

[17]

 "That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!"

The "authorities" long since forbade _Harporhynchus rufus_ to play themimic. Probably in the excitement of the moment this fellow forgothimself. 

[18] May one who knows nothing of philology venture to inquire whetherthe very close agreement of this _tweet_ with our sweet (compare alsothe Anglo-Saxon _swéte_, the Icelandic _soetr_, and the Sanskrit_svad_) does not point to a common origin of the Aryan and sandpiperlanguages?

 SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE. 

 A man that hath friends must show himself friendly. 

 PROVERBS xviii. 24. 

 SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE. 

As I was crossing Boston Common, some years ago, my attention was caughtby the unusual behavior of a robin, who was standing on the lawn, absolutely motionless, and every few seconds making a faint hissingnoise. So much engaged was he that, even when a dog ran near him, heonly started slightly, and on the instant resumed his statue-likeattitude. Wondering what this could mean, and not knowing how else tosatisfy my curiosity, I bethought myself of a man whose letters aboutbirds I had now and then noticed in the daily press. So, looking up hisname in the City Directory, and finding that he lived at such a number, Beacon Street, I wrote him a note of inquiry. He must have been amusedas he read it; for I remember giving him the title of "Esquire, " andspeaking of his communications to the newspapers as the ground of myapplication to him. "Such is fame!" he likely enough said to himself. "Here is a man with eyes in his head, a man, moreover, who has probablybeen at school in his time, --for most of his words are spelledcorrectly, --and yet he knows my name only as he has seen it signed oncein a while to a few lines in a newspaper. " Thoughts like these, however, did not prevent his replying to the note (my "valued favor") with allpoliteness, although he confessed himself unable to answer my question;and by the time I had occasion to trouble him again I had learned thathe was to be addressed as Doctor, and, furthermore, was an ornithologistof world-wide reputation, being, in fact, one of the three joint-authorsof the most important work so far issued on the birds of North America. 

Certainly I was and am grateful to him (he is now dead) for his generoustreatment of my ignorance; but even warmer is my feeling toward thatcity thrush, who, all unconscious of what he was doing, started me thatday on a line of study which has been ever since a continual delight. Most gladly would I do him any kindness in my power; but I have littledoubt that, long ere this, he, too, has gone the way of all the earth. As to what he was thinking about on that memorable May morning, I am asmuch in the dark as ever. But there is no law against a bird's behavingmysteriously, I suppose. Most of us, I am sure, often do things whichare inexplicable to ourselves, and once in a very great while, perhaps, it would puzzle even our next-door neighbors to render a completeaccount of our motives. 

Whatever the robin meant, however, and no doubt there was some goodreason for his conduct, he had given my curiosity the needed jog. Now, at last, I would do what I had often dreamed of doing, --learn somethingabout the birds of my own region, and be able to recognize at least themore common ones when I saw them. 

The interest of the study proved to be the greater for my ignorance, which, to speak within bounds, was nothing short of wonderful; perhaps Imight appropriately use a more fashionable word, and call it phenomenal. All my life long I had had a kind of passion for being out-of-doors;and, to tell the truth, I had been so often seen wandering by myself inout-of-the-way wood-paths, or sitting idly about on stone walls inlonesome pastures, that some of my Philistine townsmen had most likelycome to look upon me as no better than a vagabond. Yet I was not avagabond, for all that. I liked work, perhaps, as well as the generalityof people. But I was unfortunate in this respect: while I enjoyedin-door work, I hated to be in the house; and, on the other hand, whileI enjoyed being out-of-doors, I hated all manner of out-dooremployment. I was not lazy, but I possessed--well, let us call it thetrue aboriginal temperament; though I fear that this distinction will befound too subtile, even for the well-educated, unless, along with theireducation, they have a certain sympathetic bias, which, after all, isthe main thing to be depended on in such nice psychologicaldiscriminations. 

With all my rovings in wood and field, however, I knew nothing of anyopen-air study. Study was a thing of books. At school we were nevertaught to look elsewhere for knowledge. Reading and spelling, geographyand grammar, arithmetic and algebra, geometry and trigonometry, --thesewere studied, of course, as also were Latin and Greek. But none of ourlessons took us out of the school-room, unless it was astronomy, thestudy of which I had nearly forgotten; and that we pursued in thenight-time, when birds and plants were as though they were not. I cannotrecollect that any one of my teachers ever called my attention to anatural object. It seems incredible, but, so far as my memory serves, Iwas never in the habit of observing the return of the birds in thespring or their departure in the autumn; except, to be sure, that thesemi-annual flight of the ducks and geese was always a pleasantexcitement, more especially because there were several lakes(invariably spoken of as ponds) in our vicinity, on the borders ofwhich the village "gunners" built pine-branch booths in the season. 

But now, as I have said, my ignorance was converted all at once into akind of blessing; for no sooner had I begun to read bird books, andconsult a cabinet of mounted specimens, than every turn out-of-doorsbecame full of all manner of delightful surprises. Could it be that whatI now beheld with so much wonder was only the same as had been going onyear after year in these my own familiar lanes and woods? Truly thehuman eye is nothing more than a window, of no use unless the man looksout of it. 

Some of the experiences of that period seem ludicrous enough in theretrospect. Only two or three days after my eyes were first opened I wasout with a friend in search of wild-flowers (I was piloting him to afavorite station for _Viola pubescens_), when I saw a most elegantlittle creature, mainly black and white, but with brilliant orangemarkings. He was darting hither and thither among the branches of somelow trees, while I stared at him in amazement, calling on my comrade, who was as ignorant as myself, but less excited, to behold the prodigy. Half trembling lest the bird should prove to be some straggler from thetropics, the like of which would not be found in the cabinet beforementioned, I went thither that very evening. Alas, my silly fears! therestood the little beauty's exact counterpart, labeled _Setophagaruticilla_, the American redstart, --a bird which the manual assured mewas very common in my neighborhood. 

But it was not my eyes only that were opened, my ears also were touched. It was as if all the birds had heretofore been silent, and now, undersome sudden impulse, had broken out in universal concert. What aglorious chorus it was; and every voice a stranger! For a week or more Iwas puzzled by a song which I heard without fail whenever I went intothe woods, but the author of which I could never set eyes on, --a song soexceptionally loud and shrill, and marked by such a vehement crescendo, that, even to my new-found ears, it stood out from the general medley athing by itself. Many times I struck into the woods in the directionwhence it came, but without getting so much as a flying glimpse of themusician. Very mysterious, surely! Finally, by accident I believe, Icaught the fellow in the very act of singing, as he stood on a deadpine-limb; and a few minutes later he was on the ground, walking about(not hopping) with the primmest possible gait, --a small olive-brownbird, with an orange crown and a speckled breast. Then I knew him forthe golden-crowned thrush; but it was not for some time after this thatI heard his famous evening song, and it was longer still before I foundhis curious roofed nest. 

"Happy those early days, " those days of childish innocence, --though Iwas a man grown, --when every bird seemed newly created, and even theredstart and the wood wagtail were like rarities from the ends of theearth. Verily, my case was like unto Adam's, when every fowl of the airwas brought before him for a name. 

One evening, on my way back to the city after an afternoon ramble, Istopped just at dusk in a grove of hemlocks, and soon out of thetree-top overhead came a song, --a brief strain of about six notes, in amusical but rather rough voice, and in exquisite accord with the quietsolemnity of the hour. Again and again the sounds fell on my ear, and asoften I endeavored to obtain a view of the singer; but he was in thethick of the upper branches, and I looked for him in vain. How deliciousthe music was! a perfect lullaby, drowsy and restful; like thebenediction of the wood on the spirit of a tired city-dweller. I blessedthe unknown songster in return; and even now I have a feeling that thepeculiar enjoyment which the song of the black-throated green warblernever fails to afford me may perhaps be due in some measure to itsassociation with that twilight hour. 

To this same hemlock grove I was in the habit, in those days, of goingnow and then to listen to the evening hymn of the veery, or Wilsonthrush. Here, if nowhere else, might be heard music fit to be calledsacred. Nor did it seem a disadvantage, but rather the contrary, when, as sometimes happened, I was compelled to take my seat in the edge ofthe wood, and wait quietly, in the gathering darkness, for vespers tobegin. The veery's mood is not so lofty as the hermit's, nor is hismusic to be compared for brilliancy and fullness with that of the woodthrush; but, more than any other bird-song known to me, the veery's has, if I may say so, the accent of sanctity. Nothing is here ofself-consciousness; nothing of earthly pride or passion. If we chance tooverhear it and laud the singer, that is our affair. Simple-heartedworshiper that he is, he has never dreamed of winning praise for himselfby the excellent manner in which he praises his Creator, --an absence ofthrift, which is very becoming in thrushes, though, I suppose, it ishardly to be looked for in human choirs. 

And yet, for all the unstudied ease and simplicity of the veery'sstrain, he is a great master of _technique_. In his own artless way hedoes what I have never heard any other bird attempt: he gives to hismelody all the force of harmony. How this unique and curious effect, this vocal double-stopping, as a violinist might term it, is produced, is not certainly known; but it would seem that it must be by an_arpeggio_, struck with such consummate quickness and precision that theear is unable to follow it, and is conscious of nothing but theresultant chord. At any rate, the thing itself is indisputable, and hasoften been commented on. 

Moreover, this is only half the veery's technical proficiency. Once in awhile, at least, he will favor you with a delightful feat ofventriloquism; beginning to sing in single voice, as usual, and anon, without any noticeable increase in the loudness of the tones, diffusingthe music throughout the wood, as if there were a bird in every tree, all singing together in the strictest time. I am not sure that allmembers of the species possess this power, and I have never seen theperformance alluded to in print; but I have heard it when the illusionwas complete, and the effect most beautiful. 

Music so devout and unostentatious as the veery's does not appeal to thehurried or the preoccupied. If you would enjoy it you must bring an earto hear. I have sometimes pleased myself with imagining a resemblancebetween it and the poetry of George Herbert, --both uncared for by theworld, but both, on that very account, prized all the more dearly by thefew in every generation whose spirits are in tune with theirs. 

This bird is one of a group of small thrushes called the _Hylocichlæ_, of which group we have five representatives in the Atlantic States: thewood thrush; the Wilson, or tawny thrush; the hermit; the olive-backed, or Swainson; and the gray-cheeked, or Alice's thrush. To the unpracticedeye the five all look alike. All of them, too, have the same gloriousvoice, so that the young student is pretty sure to find it a matter ofsome difficulty to tell them apart. Yet there are differences ofcoloration which may be trusted as constant, and to which, after awhile, the eye becomes habituated; and, at the same time, each specieshas a song and call-notes peculiar to itself. One cannot help wishing, indeed, that he might hear the five singing by turns in the same wood. Then he could fix the distinguishing peculiarities of the differentsongs in his mind so as never to confuse them again. But this is morethan can be hoped for; the listener must be content with hearing two, or at the most three, of the species singing together, and trust hismemory to make the necessary comparison. 

The song of the wood thrush is perhaps the most easily set apart fromthe rest, because of its greater compass of voice and bravery ofexecution. The Wilson's song, as you hear it by itself, seems soperfectly characteristic that you fancy you can never mistake any otherfor it; and yet, if you are in northern New England only a weekafterwards, you may possibly hear a Swainson (especially if he happensto be one of the best singers of his species, and, more especiallystill, if he happens to be at just the right distance away), who youwill say, at first thought, is surely a Wilson. The difficulty ofdistinguishing the voices is naturally greatest in the spring, when theyhave not been heard for eight or nine months. Here, as elsewhere, thestudent must be willing to learn the same lesson over and over, lettingpatience have her perfect work. That the five songs are reallydistinguishable is well illustrated by the fact (which I have beforementioned), that the presence of the Alice thrush in New England duringthe breeding season was announced as probable by myself, simply on thestrength of a song which I had heard in the White Mountains, and which, as I believed, must be his, notwithstanding I was entirely unacquaintedwith it, and though all our books affirmed that the Alice thrush was nota summer resident of any part of the United States. 

It is worth remarking, also, in this connection, that the _Hylocichlæ_differ more decidedly in their notes of alarm than in their songs. Thewood thrush's call is extremely sharp and brusque, and is usually firedoff in a little volley; that of the Wilson is a sort of whine, or snarl, in distressing contrast with his song; the hermit's is a quick, _sottovoce_, sometimes almost inaudible _chuck_; the Swainson's is a mellowwhistle; while that of the Alice is something between the Swainson's andthe Wilson's, --not so gentle and refined as the former, nor sooutrageously vulgar as the latter. 

In what is here said about discriminating species it must be understoodthat I am not speaking of such identification as will answer a strictlyscientific purpose. For that the bird must be shot. To the maiden

 "whose light blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, "

this decree will no doubt sound cruel. Men who pass laws of that sortmay call themselves ornithologists, if they will; for her part she callsthem butchers. We might turn on our fair accuser, it is true, with someinquiry about the two or three bird-skins which adorn her bonnet. Butthat would be only giving one more proof of our heartlessness; and, besides, unless a man is downright angry he can scarcely feel that hehas really cleared himself when he has done nothing more than to pointthe finger and say, You're another. However, I am not set for thedefence of ornithologists. They are abundantly able to take care ofthemselves without the help of any outsider. I only declare that, evento my unprofessional eye, this rule of theirs seems wise and necessary. They know, if their critics do not, how easy it is to be deceived; howmany times things have been seen and minutely described, which, as wasafterwards established, could not by any possibility have been visible. Moreover, regret it as we may, it is clear that in this world nobody canescape giving and taking more or less pain. We of the sterner sex areaccustomed to think that even our blue-eyed censors are not entirelyinnocent in this regard; albeit, for myself, I am bound to believe thatgenerally they are not to blame for the tortures they inflict upon us. 

Granting the righteousness of the scientist's caution, however, we maystill find a less rigorous code sufficient for our own non-scientific, though I hope not unscientific, purpose. For it is certain that no greatenjoyment of bird study is possible for some of us, if we are never tobe allowed to call our gentle friends by name until in every case wehave gone through the formality of a _post-mortem_ examination. Practically, and for every-day ends, we may know a robin, or a redstart, or even a hermit thrush, when we see him, without first turning the birdinto a specimen. 

Probably there are none of our birds which afford more surprise andpleasure to a novice than the family of warblers. A well-knownornithologist has related how one day he wandered into the forest in anidle mood, and accidentally catching a gleam of bright color overhead, raised his gun and brought the bird to his feet; and how excited andcharmed he was with the wondrous beauty of his little trophy. Were thereother birds in the woods as lovely as this? He would see for himself. And that was the beginning of what bids fair to prove a life-longenthusiasm. 

Thirty-eight warblers are credited to New England; but it would be safeto say that not more than three of them are known to the averageNew-Englander. How should he know them, indeed? They do not come aboutthe flower-garden like the humming-bird, nor about the lawn like therobin; neither can they be hunted with a dog like the grouse and thewoodcock. Hence, for all their gorgeous apparel, they are mainly left tostudents and collectors. Of our common species the most beautiful are, perhaps, the blue yellow-back, the blue golden-wing, the Blackburnian, the black-and-yellow, the Canada flycatcher, and the redstart; with theyellow-rump, the black-throated green, the prairie warbler, the summeryellow-bird, and the Maryland yellow-throat coming not far behind. Butall of them are beautiful, and they possess, besides, the charm of greatdiversity of plumage and habits; while some of them have the furthermerit, by no means inconsiderable, of being rare. 

It was a bright day for me when the blue golden-winged warbler settledin my neighborhood. On my morning walk I detected a new song, and, following it up, found a new bird, --a result which is far from being athing of course. The spring migration was at its height, and at first Iexpected to have the pleasure of my new friend's society for only a dayor two; so I made the most of it. But it turned out that he and hiscompanion had come to spend the summer, and before very long Idiscovered their nest. This was still unfinished when I came upon it;but I knew pretty well whose it was, having several times noticed thebirds about the spot, and a few days afterwards the female bravely satstill, while I bent over her, admiring her courage and her handsomedress. I paid my respects to the little mother almost daily, butjealously guarded her secret, sharing it only with a kind-hearted woman, whom I took with me on one of my visits. But, alas! one day I called, only to find the nest empty. Whether the villain who pillaged ittraveled on two legs, or on four, I never knew. Possibly he dropped outof the air. But I wished him no good, whoever he was. Next year thebirds appeared again, and more than one pair of them; but no nest couldI find, though I often looked for it, and, as children say in theirgames, was sometimes very warm. 

Is there any lover of birds in whose mind certain birds and certainplaces are not indissolubly joined? Most of us, I am sure, could go overthe list and name the exact spots where we first saw this one, where wefirst heard that one sing, and where we found our first nest of theother. There is a piece of swampy woodland in Jefferson, New Hampshire, midway between the hotels and the railway station, which, for me, willalways be associated with the song of the winter wren. I had been makingan attempt to explore the wood, with a view to its botanical treasures, but the mosquitoes had rallied with such spirit that I was glad to beata retreat to the road. Just then an unseen bird broke out into a song, and by the time he had finished I was saying to myself, A winter wren!Now, if I could only see him in the act, and so be sure of thecorrectness of my guess! I worked to that end as cautiously as possible, but all to no purpose; and finally I started abruptly toward the spotwhence the sound had come, expecting to see the bird fly. But apparentlythere was no bird there, and I stood still, in a little perplexity. Then, all at once, the wren appeared, hopping about among the deadbranches, within a few yards of my feet, and peering at the intruderwith evident curiosity; and the next moment he was joined by a hermitthrush, equally inquisitive. Both were silent as dead men, but plainlyhad no doubt whatever that they were in their own domain, and that itbelonged to the other party to move away. I presumed that the thrush, atleast, had a nest not far off, but after a little search (the mosquitoeswere still active) I concluded not to intrude further on his domesticprivacy. I had heard the wren's famous song, and it had not beenover-praised. But then came the inevitable second thought: had I reallyheard it? True, the music possessed the wren characteristics, and awinter wren was in the brush; but what proof had I that the bird and thesong belonged together? No; I must see him in the act of singing. Butthis, I found, was more easily said than done. In Jefferson, in Gorham, in the Franconia Notch, in short, wherever I went, there was nodifficulty about hearing the music, and little about seeing the wren;but it was provoking that eye and ear could never be brought to bearwitness to the same bird. However, this difficulty was not insuperable, and after it was once overcome I was in the habit of witnessing thewhole performance almost as often as I wished. 

Of similar interest to me is a turn in an old Massachusetts road, overwhich, boy and man, I have traveled hundreds of times; one of thosedelightful back-roads, half road and half lane, where the grass growsbetween the horse-track and the wheel-track, while bushes usurp whatought to be the sidewalk. Here, one morning in the time when every daywas disclosing two or three new species for my delight, I stopped tolisten to some bird of quite unsuspected identity, who was calling andsinging and scolding in the Indian brier thicket, making, in truth, aprodigious racket. I twisted and turned, and was not a little astonishedwhen at last I detected the author of all this outcry. From a study ofthe manual I set him down as probably the white-eyed vireo, --aconjecture which further investigation confirmed. This vireo is the veryprince of stump-speakers, --fluent, loud, and sarcastic, --and is wellcalled the politician, though it is a disappointment to learn that thetitle was given him, not for his eloquence, but on account of his habitof putting pieces of newspaper into his nest. While I stood peering intothe thicket, a man whom I knew came along the road, and caught me thusdisreputably employed. Without doubt he thought me a lazygood-for-nothing; or possibly (being more charitable) he said tohimself, "Poor fellow! he's losing his mind. "

Take a gun on your shoulder, and go wandering about the woods all daylong, and you will be looked upon with respect, no matter though youkill nothing bigger than a chipmunk; or stand by the hour at the end ofa fishing-pole, catching nothing but mosquito-bites, and your neighborswill think no ill of you. But to be seen staring at a bird for fiveminutes together, or picking roadside weeds!--well, it is fortunatethere are asylums for the crazy. Not unlikely the malady will grow uponhim; and who knows how soon he may become dangerous? Something must bewrong about that to which we are unaccustomed. Blowing out the brainsof rabbits and squirrels is an innocent and delightful pastime, aseverybody knows; and the delectable excitement of pulling half-grownfishes out of the pond to perish miserably on the bank, that, too, is arecreation easily enough appreciated. But what shall be said of enjoyingbirds without killing them, or of taking pleasure in plants, which, sofar as we know, cannot suffer even if we do kill them?

Of my many pleasant associations of birds with places, one of thepleasantest is connected with the red-headed woodpecker. This showy birdhas for a good many years been very rare in Massachusetts; andtherefore, when, during the freshness of my ornithological researches, Iwent to Washington for a month's visit, it was one of the things which Ihad especially in mind, to make his acquaintance. But I looked for himwithout success, till, at the end of a fortnight, I made a pilgrimage toMount Vernon. Here, after visiting the grave, and going over the house, as every visitor does, I sauntered about the grounds, thinking of thegreat man who used to do the same so many years before, but all thewhile keeping my eyes open for the present feathered inhabitants of thesacred spot. Soon a bird dashed by me, and struck against the trunk ofan adjacent tree, and glancing up quickly, I beheld my much-soughtred-headed woodpecker. How appropriately patriotic he looked, at thehome of Washington, wearing the national colors, --red, white, and blue!After this he became abundant about the capital, so that I saw himoften, and took much pleasure in his frolicsome ways; and, some yearslater, he suddenly appeared in force in the vicinity of Boston, where heremained through the winter months. To my thought, none the less, hewill always suggest Mount Vernon. Indeed, although he is certainlyrather jovial, and even giddy, he is to me the bird of Washington muchmore truly than is the solemn, stupid-seeming eagle, who commonly bearsthat name. 

To go away from home, even if the journey be no longer than fromMassachusetts to the District of Columbia, is sure to prove an event ofno small interest to a young naturalist; and this visit of mine to thenational capital was no exception. On the afternoon of my arrival, walking up Seventh Street, I heard a series of loud, clear, monotonouswhistles, which I had then no leisure to investigate, but the author ofwhich I promised myself the satisfaction of meeting at another time. Infact, I think it was at least a fortnight before I learned that thesewhistles came from the tufted titmouse. I had been seeing him almostdaily, but till then he had never chanced to use that particular notewhile under my eye. 

There was a certain tract of country, woodland and pasture, over which Iroamed a good many times, and which is still clearly mapped out in mymemory. Here I found my first Carolina or mocking wren, who ran in atone side of a woodpile and came out at the other as I drew near, andwho, a day or two afterwards, sang so loudly from an oak tree that Iransacked it with my eye in search of some large bird, and wasconfounded when finally I discovered who the musician really was. Here, every day, were to be heard the glorious song of the cardinal grosbeak, the insect-like effort of the blue-gray gnatcatcher, and the rigmaroleof the yellow-breasted chat. On a wooded hillside, where grew aprofusion of trailing arbutus, pink azalea, and bird-foot violets, therowdyish, great-crested flycatchers were screaming in the tree-tops. Inthis same grove I twice saw the rare red-bellied woodpecker, who, onboth occasions, after rapping smartly with his beak, turned his head andlaid his ear against the trunk, evidently listening to see whether hisalarm had set any grub a-stirring. Near by, in an undergrowth, I fell inwith a few worm-eating warblers. They seemed of a peculiarlyunsuspicious turn of mind, and certainly wore the quaintest ofhead-dresses. I must mention also a scarlet tanager, who, all afire ashe was, one day alighted in a bush of flowering dogwood, which wascompletely covered with its large white blossoms. Probably he had noidea how well his perch became him. 

Perhaps I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but, though I went severaltimes into the galleries of our honorable Senate and House ofRepresentatives, and heard speeches by some celebrated men, including atleast half a dozen candidates for the presidency, yet, after all, thecongressmen in feathers interested me most. I thought, indeed, that thechat might well enough have been elected to the lower house. Hisvolubility and waggish manners would have made him quite at home in thatassembly, while his orange-colored waistcoat would have given him anagreeable conspicuity. But, to be sure, he would have needed to learnthe use of tobacco. 

Well, all this was only a few years ago; but the men whose eloquencethen drew the crowd to the capitol are, many of them, heard there nolonger. Some are dead; some have retired to private life. But the birdsnever die. Every spring they come trooping back for their all-summersession. The turkey-buzzard still floats majestically over the city; thechat still practices his lofty tumbling in the suburban pastures, snarling and scolding at all comers; the flowing Potomac still yields "ablameless sport" to the fish-crow and the kingfisher; the orchard oriolecontinues to whistle in front of the Agricultural Department, and thecrow blackbird to parade back and forth over the Smithsonian lawns. Presidents and senators may come and go, be praised and vilified, andthen in turn forgotten; but the birds are subject to no such mutations. It is a foolish thought, but sometimes their happy carelessness seemsthe better part. 

 MINOR SONGSTERS. 

 The lesser lights, the dearer still That they elude a vulgar eye. 

 BROWNING. 

 Listen too, How every pause is filled with under-notes. 

 SHELLEY. 

 MINOR SONGSTERS. 

Among those of us who are in the habit of attending to bird-songs, therecan hardly be anybody, I think, who has not found himself specially andpermanently attracted by the music of certain birds who have little orno general reputation. Our favoritism may perhaps be the result of earlyassociations: we heard the singer first in some uncommonly romanticspot, or when we were in a mood of unusual sensibility; and, in greateror less degree, the charm of that hour is always renewed for us with therepetition of the song. Or if may be (who will assert the contrary?)that there is some occult relation between the bird's mind and our own. Or, once more, something may be due to the natural pleasure whichamiable people take (and all lovers of birds may be supposed, _apriori_, to belong to that class) in paying peculiar honor to meritwhich the world at large, less discriminating than they, has thus farfailed to recognize, and in which, therefore, as by "right ofdiscovery, " they have a sort of proprietary interest. This, at least, isevident: our preference is not determined altogether by the intrinsicworth of the song; the mind is active, not passive, and gives to themusic something from itself, --"the consecration and the poet's dream. "

Furthermore, it is to be said that a singer--and a bird no less than aman--may be wanting in that fullness and scope of voice and that largemeasure of technical skill which are absolutely essential to the greatartist, properly so called, and yet, within his own limitations, may becompetent to please even the most fastidious ear. It is with birds aswith other poets: the smaller gift need not be the less genuine; andthey whom the world calls greatest, and whom we ourselves most admire, may possibly not be the ones who touch us most intimately, or to whom wereturn oftenest and with most delight. 

This may be well illustrated by a comparison of the chickadee with thebrown thrush. The thrush, or, as he is sometimes profanely styled, thethrasher, is the most pretentious, perhaps I ought to say the greatest, of New England songsters, if we rule out the mocking-bird, who is sovery rare with us as scarcely to come into the competition; and still, in my opinion, his singing seldom produces the effect of really finemusic. With all his ability, which is nothing short of marvelous, histaste is so deplorably uncertain, and his passion so often becomes adownright frenzy, that the excited listener, hardly knowing what tothink, laughs and shouts. Bravo! by turns. Something must be amiss, certainly, when the deepest feelings of the heart are poured forth in amanner to suggest the performance of a _buffo_. The chickadee, on theother hand, seldom gets mention as a singer. Probably he never lookedupon himself as such. You will not find him posing at the top of a tree, challenging the world to listen and admire. But, as he hops from twig totwig in quest of insects' eggs and other dainties, his merry spirits areall the time bubbling over in little chirps and twitters, with now andthen a _Chickadee, dee_, or a _Hear, hear me_, every least syllable ofwhich is like "the very sound of happy thoughts. " For my part, I ratesuch trifles with the best of all good music, and feel that we cannot begrateful enough to the brave tit, who furnishes us with them for thetwelve months of every year. 

So far as the chickadee is concerned, I see nothing whatever to wishdifferent; but am glad to believe that, for my day and long after, hewill remain the same unassuming, careless-hearted creature that he nowis. If I may be allowed the paradox, it would be too bad for him tochange, even for the better. But the bluebird, who like the titmouse ishardly to be accounted a musician, does seem to be somewhat blameworthy. Once in a while, it is true, he takes a perch and sings; but for themost part he is contented with a few simple notes, having no semblanceof a tune. Possibly he holds that his pure contralto voice (I do notremember ever to have heard from him any note of a soprano, or even of amezzo-soprano quality) ought by itself to be a sufficient distinction;but I think it likelier that his slight attempt at music is only onemanifestation of the habitual reserve which, more than anything elseperhaps, may be said to characterize him. How differently he and therobin impress us in this particular! Both take up their abode in ourdoor-yards and orchards; the bluebird goes so far, indeed, as to acceptour hospitality outright, building his nest in boxes put up for hisaccommodation, and making the roofs of our houses his favorite perchingstations. But, while the robin is noisily and jauntily familiar, thebluebird maintains a dignified aloofness; coming and going about thepremises, but keeping his thoughts to himself, and never becoming one ofus save by the mere accident of local proximity. The robin, again, lovesto travel in large flocks, when household duties are over for theseason; but although the same has been reported of the bluebird, I havenever myself seen such a thing, and am satisfied that, as a rule, thisgentle spirit finds a family party of six or seven company enough. Hisreticence, as we cheerfully admit, is nothing to quarrel with; it is allwell-bred, and not in the least unkindly; in fact, we like it, on thewhole, rather better than the robin's pertness and garrulity; but, nonethe less, its natural consequence is that the bird has small concern formusical display. When he sings, it is not to gain applause, but toexpress his affection; and while, in one aspect of the case, there isnothing out of the way in this, --since his affection need not be theless deep and true because it is told in few words and with unadornedphrase, --yet, as I said to begin with, it is hard not to feel that theworld is being defrauded, when for any reason, however amiable, thepossessor of such a matchless voice has no ambition to make the most ofit. 

It is always a double pleasure to find a plodding, humdrum-seeming manwith a poet's heart in his breast; and a little of the same delightedsurprise is felt by every one, I imagine, when he learns for the firsttime that our little brown creeper is a singer. What life could possiblybe more prosaic than his? Day after day, year in and out, he creeps upone tree-trunk after another, pausing only to peer right and left intothe crevices of the bark, in search of microscopic tidbits. A mostirksome sameness, surely! How the poor fellow must envy the swallows, who live on the wing, and, as it were, have their home in heaven! So itis easy for us to think; but I doubt whether the creeper himself istroubled with such suggestions. He seems, to say the least, as wellcontented as the most of us; and, what is more, I am inclined to doubtwhether any except "free moral agents, " like ourselves, are ever wickedenough to find fault with the orderings of Divine Providence. I fancy, too, that we may have exaggerated the monotony of the creeper's lot. Itcan scarcely be that even his days are without their occasionalpleasurable excitements. After a good many trees which yield little ornothing for his pains, he must now and then light upon one which is likeCanaan after the wilderness, --"a land flowing with milk and honey. "Indeed, the longer I think of it the more confident I feel that everyaged creeper must have had sundry experiences of this sort, which he isnever weary of recounting for the edification of his nephews and nieces, who, of course, are far too young to have anything like the wideknowledge of the world which their venerable three-years-old unclepossesses. _Certhia_ works all day for his daily bread; and yet even ofhim it is true that "the life is more than meat. " He has his inwardjoys, his affectionate delights, which no outward infelicity can touch. A bird who thinks nothing of staying by his nest and his mate at thesacrifice of his life is not to be written down a dullard or a drudge, merely because his dress is plain and his occupation unromantic. He hasa right to sing, for he has something within him to inspire the strain. 

There are descriptions of the creeper's music which liken it to awren's. I am sorry that I have myself heard it only on one occasion:then, however, so far was it from being wren-like that it might ratherhave been the work of one of the less proficient warblers, --a somewhatlong opening note followed by a hurried series of shorter ones, thewhole given in a sharp, thin voice, and having nothing to recommend itto notice, considered simply as music. All the while the bird kept onindustriously with his journey up the tree; and it is not in the leastunlikely that he may have another and better song, which he reserves fortimes of more leisure. [19]

Our American wood-warblers are all to be classed among the minorsongsters; standing in this respect in strong contrast with the true OldWorld warblers, of whose musical capacity enough, perhaps, is said whenit is mentioned that the nightingale is one of them. But, comparisonsapart, our birds are by no means to be despised, and not a few of theirsongs have a good degree of merit. That of the well-known summeryellow-bird may be taken as fairly representative of the entire group, being neither one of the best nor one of the poorest. He, I havenoticed, is given to singing late in the day. Three of the New Englandspecies have at the same time remarkably rough voices and blackthroats, --I mean the black-throated blue, the black-throated green, andthe blue golden-wing, --and seeing that the first two are of the genus_Dendroeca_, while the last is a _Helminthophaga_, I have allowedmyself to query (half in earnest) whether they may not, possibly, bemore nearly related than the systematists have yet discovered. Severalof the warbler songs are extremely odd. The blue yellow-back's, forexample, is a brief, hoarse, upward run, --a kind of scale exercise; andif the practice of such things be really as beneficial as music teachersaffirm, it would seem that this little beauty must in time become avocalist of the first order. Nearly the same might be said of theprairie warbler; but his _étude_ is a little longer and less hurried, besides being in a higher key. I do not call to mind any bird who singsa downward scale. Having before spoken of the tendency of warblers tolearn two or even three set tunes, I was the more interested when, lastsummer, I added another to my list of the species which aspire to thiskind of liberal education. It was on the side of Mount Clinton that Iheard two Blackburnians, both in full sight and within a few rods ofeach other, who were singing two entirely distinct songs. One ofthese--it is the common one, I think--ended quaintly with three or fourshort notes, like _zip_, _zip_, _zip;_ while the other was not unlike afraction of the winter wren's melody. Those who are familiar with thelatter bird will perhaps recognize the phrase referred to if I call itthe _willie, willie, winkie, _--with a triple accent on the firstsyllable of the last word. Most of the songs of this family are ratherslight, but the extremest case known to me is that of the black-poll(_Dendroeca striata_), whose _zee, zee, zee_ is almost ridiculouslyfaint. You may hear it continually in the higher spruce forests of theWhite Mountains; but you will look a good many times before you discoverits author, and not improbably will begin by taking it for the call ofthe kinglet. The music of the bay-breasted warbler is similar to theblack-poll's, but hardly so weak and formless. It seems reasonable tobelieve not only that these two species are descended from a commonancestry, but that the divergence is of a comparatively recent date:even now the young of the year can be distinguished only with greatdifficulty, although the birds in full feather are clearly enoughmarked. 

Warblers' songs are often made up of two distinct portions: one givendeliberately, the other hurriedly and with a concluding flourish. Indeed, the same may be said of bird-songs generally, --those of the songsparrow, the bay-winged bunting, and the wood thrush being familiarexamples. Yet there are many singers who attempt no climax of this sort, but make their music to consist of two, or three, or more parts, allalike. The Maryland yellow-throat, for instance, cries out over andover, "What a pity, what a pity, what a pity!" So, at least, he seems tosay; though, I confess, it is more than likely I mistake the words, since the fellow never appears to be feeling badly, but, on thecontrary, delivers his message with an air of cordial satisfaction. Thesong of the pine-creeping warbler is after still another fashion, --onesimple short trill. It is musical and sweet; the more so for comingalmost always out of a pine-tree. 

The vireos, or greenlets, are akin to the warblers in appearance andhabits, and like them are peculiar to the western continent. We have nobirds that are more unsparing of their music (prodigality is one of theAmerican virtues, we are told): they sing from morning till night, and--some of them, at least--continue thus till the very end of theseason. It is worth mentioning, however, that the red-eye makes a shortday; becoming silent just at the time when the generality of birds growmost noisy. Probably the same is true of the rest of the family, but onthat point I am not prepared to speak with positiveness. Of the five NewEngland species (I omit the brotherly-love greenlet, never having beenfortunate enough to know him) the white-eye is decidedly the mostambitious, the warbling and the solitary are the most pleasing, whilethe red-eye and the yellow-throat are very much alike, and both of themrather too monotonous and persistent. It is hard, sometimes, not to getout of patience with the red-eye's ceaseless and noisy iteration of histrite theme; especially if you are doing your utmost to catch the notesof some rarer and more refined songster. In my note-book I find an entrydescribing my vain attempts to enjoy the music of a rose-breastedgrosbeak, --who at that time had never been a common bird with me, --while"a pesky Wagnerian red-eye kept up an incessant racket. "

The warbling vireo is admirably named; there is no one of our birds thatcan more properly be said to warble. He keeps further from the groundthan the others, and shows a strong preference for the elms of villagestreets, out of which his delicious music drops upon the ears of allpassers underneath. How many of them hear it and thank the singer isunhappily another question. 

The solitary vireo may once in a while be heard in a roadside tree, chanting as familiarly as any red-eye; but he is much less abundant thanthe latter, and, as a rule, more retiring. His ordinary song is like thered-eye's and the yellow-throat's, except that it is pitched somewhathigher and has a peculiar inflection or cadence, which on sufficientacquaintance becomes quite unmistakable. This, however, is only thesmallest part of his musical gift. One morning in May, while strollingthrough a piece of thick woods, I came upon a bird of this species, who, all alone like myself, was hopping from one low branch to another, andevery now and then breaking out into a kind of soliloquizing song, --amusical chatter, shifting suddenly to an intricate, low-voiced warble. Later in the same day I found another in a chestnut grove. This last wasin a state of quite unwonted fervor, and sang almost continuously; nowin the usual disconnected vireo manner, and now with a chatter andwarble like what I had heard in the morning, but louder and longer. Hisbest efforts ended abruptly with the ordinary vireo call, and theinstantaneous change of voice gave to the whole a very strange effect. The chatter and warble appeared to be related to each other precisely asare those of the ruby-crowned kinglet; while the warble had a certaintender, affectionate, some would say plaintive quality, which at onceput me in mind of the goldfinch. 

I have seldom been more charmed with the song of any bird than I was onthe 7th of last October with that of this same _Vireo solitarius_. Themorning was bright and warm, but the birds had nearly all taken theirdeparture, and the few that remained were silent. Suddenly the stillnesswas broken by a vireo note, and I said to myself with surprise, Ared-eye? Listening again, however, I detected the solitary's inflection;and after a few moments the bird, in the most obliging manner, camedirectly towards me, and began to warble in the fashion alreadydescribed. He sang and sang, --as if his song could have no ending, --andmeanwhile was flitting from tree to tree, intent upon his breakfast. Asfar as I could discover, he was without company; and his music, too, seemed to be nothing more than an unpremeditated, half-unconscioustalking to himself. Wonderfully sweet it was, and full of the happiestcontent. "I listened till I had my fill, " and returned the favor, asbest I could, by hoping that the little wayfarer's lightsome mood wouldnot fail him, all the way to Guatemala and back again. 

Exactly a month before this, and not far from the same spot, I had stoodfor some minutes to enjoy the "recital" of the solitary's saucy cousin, the white-eye. Even at that time, although the woods were swarming withbirds, --many of them travelers from the North, --this white-eye wasnearly the only one still in song. He, however, was fairly brimming overwith music; changing his tune again and again, and introducing (for thefirst time in Weymouth, as concert programmes say) a notably fine shake. Like the solitary, he was all the while busily feeding (birds ingeneral, and vireos in particular, hold with Mrs. Browning that we may"prove our work the better for the sweetness of our song"), and onewhile was exploring a poison-dogwood bush, plainly without the slightestfear of any ill-result. It occurred to me that possibly it is ourfault, and not that of _Rhus venenata_, when we suffer from the touch ofthat graceful shrub. 

The white-eyed greenlet is a vocalist of such extraordinary versatilityand power that one feels almost guilty in speaking of him under thetitle which stands at the head of this paper. How he would scold, out-carlyling Carlyle, if he knew what were going on! Nevertheless Icannot rank him with the great singers, exceptionally clever andoriginal as, beyond all dispute, he is; and for that matter, I look uponthe solitary as very much his superior, in spite of--or, shall I say, because of?--the latter's greater simplicity and reserve. 

But if we hesitate thus about these two inconspicuous vireos, whom halfof those who do them the honor to read what is here said about them willhave never seen, how are we to deal with the scarlet tanager? Ourhandsomest bird, and with musical aspirations as well, shall we put himinto the second class? It must be so, I fear: yet such justice is atrial to the flesh; for what critic could ever quite leave out ofaccount the beauty of a _prima donna_ in passing judgment on her work?Does not her angelic face sing to his eye, as Emerson says?

Formerly I gave the tanager credit for only one song, --the one whichsuggests a robin laboring under an attack of hoarseness; but I havediscovered that he himself regards his _chip-cherr_ as of equal value. At least, I have found him perched at the tip of a tall pine, andrepeating this inconsiderable and not very melodious trochee with allearnestness and perseverance. Sometimes he rehearses it thus atnightfall; but even so I cannot call it highly artistic. I am glad tobelieve, however, that he does not care in the least for my opinion. Whyshould he? He is too true a gallant to mind what anybody else thinks, solong as _one_ is pleased; and she, no doubt, tells him every day that heis the best singer in the grove. Beside his divine _chip-cherr_ therhapsody of the wood thrush is a mere nothing, if she is to be thejudge. Strange, indeed, that so shabbily dressed a creature as thisthrush should have the presumption to attempt to sing at all! "Butthen, " she charitably adds, "perhaps he is not to blame; such thingscome by nature; and there are some birds, you know, who cannot tell thedifference between noise and music. "

We trust that the tanager will improve as time goes on; but in any casewe are largely in his debt. How we should miss him if he were gone, oreven were become as rare as the summer red-bird and the cardinal are inour latitude! As it is, he lights up our Northern woods with a trulytropical splendor, the like of which no other of our birds can furnish. Let us hold him in hearty esteem, and pray that he may never beexterminated; no, not even to beautify the head-gear of our ladies, who, if they only knew it, are already sufficiently bewitching. 

What shall we say now about the lesser lights of that most musicalfamily, the finches? Of course the cardinal and rose-breasted grosbeaksare not to be included in any such category. Nor will _I_ put there thegoldfinch, the linnet, the fox-colored sparrow, and the song sparrow. These, if no more, shall stand among the immortals; so far, at any rate, as my suffrage counts. But who ever dreamed of calling the chippingsparrow a fine singer? And yet, who that knows it does not love hisearnest, long-drawn trill, dry and tuneless as it is? I can speak forone, at all events; and he always has an ear open for it by the middleof April. It is the voice of a friend, --a friend so true and gentle andconfiding that we do not care to ask whether his voice be smooth and hisspeech eloquent. 

The chipper's congener, the field sparrow, is less neighborly than he, but a much better musician. His song is simplicity itself; yet, even atits lowest estate, it never fails of being truly melodious, while byone means and another its wise little author contrives to impart to it avery considerable variety, albeit within pretty narrow limits. Lastspring the field sparrows were singing constantly from the middle ofApril till about the 10th of May, when they became entirely dumb. Then, after a week in which I heard not a note, they again grew musical. Ipondered not a little over their silence, but concluded that they werejust then very much occupied with preparations for housekeeping. 

The bird who is called indiscriminately the grass finch, the bay-wingedbunting, the bay-winged sparrow, the vesper sparrow, and I know not whatelse (the ornithologists have nicknamed him _Pooecetes gramineus_), isa singer of good parts, but is especially to be commended for hisrefinement. In form his music is strikingly like the song sparrow's; butthe voice is not so loud and ringing, and the two or three opening notesare less sharply emphasized. In general the difference between the twosongs may perhaps be well expressed by saying that the one is moredeclamatory, the other more _cantabile_; a difference exactly such as wemight have expected, considering the nervous, impetuous disposition ofthe song sparrow and the placidity of the bay-wing. 

As one of his titles indicates, the bay-wing is famous for singing inthe evening, when, of course, his efforts are doubly acceptable; and Ican readily believe that Mr. Minot is correct in his "impression" thathe has once or twice heard the song in the night. For while spending afew days at a New Hampshire hotel, which was surrounded with fine lawnssuch as the grass finch delights in, I happened to be awake in themorning, long before sunrise, --when, in fact, it seemed like the dead ofnight, --and one or two of these sparrows were piping freely. The sweetand gentle strain had the whole mountain valley to itself. How beautifulit was, set in such a broad "margin of silence, " I must leave to beimagined. I noticed, moreover, that the birds sang almost incessantlythe whole day through. Much of the time there were two singingantiphonally. Manifestly, the lines had fallen to them in pleasantplaces: at home for the summer in those luxuriant Sugar-Hill fields, incontinual sight of yonder magnificent mountain panorama, with Lafayettehimself looming grandly in the foreground; while they, innocent souls, had never so much as heard of hotel-keepers and their bills. "Happycommoners, " indeed! Their "songs in the night" seemed nowise surprising. I fancied that I could be happy myself in such a case. 

Our familiar and ever-welcome snow-bird, known in some quarters as theblack chipping-bird, and often called the black snow-bird, has a longtrill, not altogether unlike the common chipper's, but in a much higherkey. It is a modest lay, yet doubtless full of meaning; for the singertakes to the very tip of a tree, and throws his head back in the mostapproved style. He does his best, at any rate, and so far ranks with theangels; while, if my testimony can be of any service to him, I am gladto say ('t is too bad the praise is so equivocal) that I have heard manyhuman singers who gave me less pleasure; and further, that he took anindispensable though subordinate part in what was one of the mostmemorable concerts at which I was ever happy enough to be a listener. This was given some years ago in an old apple-orchard by a flock offox-colored sparrows, who, perhaps for that occasion only, had the"valuable assistance" of a large choir of snow-birds. The latter weretwittering in every tree, while to this goodly accompaniment thesparrows were singing their loud, clear, thrush-like song. Thecombination was felicitous in the extreme. I would go a long way to hearthe like again. 

If distinction cannot be attained by one means, who knows but that itmay be by another? It is denied us to be great? Very well, we can atleast try the effect of a little originality. Something like this seemsto be the philosophy of the indigo-bird; and he carries it out both indress and in song. As we have said already, it is usual for birds toreserve the loudest and most taking parts of their music for the close, though it may be doubted whether they have any intelligent purpose in sodoing. Indeed, the apprehension of a great general truth such as lies atthe basis of this well-nigh universal habit, --the truth, namely, thateverything depends upon the impression finally left on the hearer'smind; that to end with some grand burst, or with some surprisingly loftynote, is the only, or to speak cautiously, the principal, requisite to areally great musical performance, --the intelligent grasp of such a truthas this, I say, seems to me to lie beyond the measure of a bird'scapacity in the present stage of his development. Be this as it may, however, it is noteworthy that the indigo-bird exactly reverses thecommon plan. He begins at his loudest and sprightliest, and then runsoff into a _diminuendo_, which fades into silence almost imperceptibly. The strain will never be renowned for its beauty; but it is unique, and, further, is continued well into August. Moreover, --and this adds graceto the most ordinary song, --it is often let fall while the bird is onthe wing. 

This eccentric genius has taken possession of a certain hillsidepasture, which, in another way, belongs to me also. Year after year hecomes back and settles down upon it about the middle of May; and I haveoften been amused to see his mate--who is not permitted to wear a singleblue feather--drop out of her nest in a barberry bush and go flutteringoff, both wings dragging helplessly through the grass. I should pity herprofoundly but that I am in no doubt her injuries will rapidly heal whenonce I am out of sight. Besides, I like to imagine her beatitude, as, five minutes afterward, she sits again upon the nest, with her heart'streasures all safe underneath her. Many a time was a boy of myacquaintance comforted in some ache or pain with the words, "Never mind!'t will feel better when it gets well;" and so, sure enough, it alwaysdid. But what a wicked world this is, where nature teaches even a birdto play the deceiver!

On the same hillside is always to be found the chewink, --a creaturewhose dress and song are so unlike those of the rest of his tribe thatthe irreverent amateur is tempted to believe that, for once, the men ofscience have made a mistake. What has any finch to do with a call like_cherawink_, or with such a three-colored harlequin suit? But it isunsafe to judge according to the outward appearance, in ornithology asin other matters; and I have heard that it is only those who are foolishas well as ignorant who indulge in off-hand criticisms of wiser men'sconclusions. So let us call the towhee a finch, and say no more aboutit. 

But whatever his lineage, it is plain that the chewink is not a bird tobe governed very strictly by the traditions of the fathers. His usualsong is characteristic and pretty, yet he is so far from being satisfiedwith it that he varies it continually and in many ways, some of themsadly puzzling to the student who is set upon telling all the birds bytheir voices. I remember well enough the morning I was inveigled throughthe wet grass of two pastures--and that just as I was shod for thecity--by a wonderfully foreign note, which filled me with livelyanticipations of a new bird, but which turned out to be the work of amost innocent-looking towhee. It was perhaps this same bird, or hisbrother, whom I one day heard throwing in between his customary_cherawinks_ a profusion of _staccato_ notes of widely varying pitch, together with little volleys of tinkling sounds such as his every-daysong concludes with. This medley was not laughable, like the chat's, which it suggested, but it had the same abrupt, fragmentary, andpromiscuous character. All in all, it was what I never should haveexpected from this paragon of self-possession. 

For self-control, as I have elsewhere said, is Pipilo's strong point. One afternoon last summer a young friend and I found ourselves, as wesuspected, near a chewink's nest, and at once set out to see which of usshould have the honor of the discovery. We searched diligently, butwithout avail, while the father-bird sat quietly in a tree, calling withall sweetness and with never a trace of anger or trepidation, _cherawink, cherawink_. Finally we gave over the hunt, and I began toconsole my companion and myself for our disappointment by shaking in theface of the bird a small tree which very conveniently leaned toward theone in which he was perched. By rather vigorous efforts I could makethis pass back and forth within a few inches of his bill; but he utterlydisdained to notice it, and kept on calling as before. While we werelaughing at his impudence (_his_ impudence!) the mother suddenlyappeared, with an insect in her beak, and joined her voice to herhusband's. I was just declaring how cruel as well as useless it was forus to stay, when she ungratefully gave a ludicrous turn to what wasintended for a very sage and considerate remark, by dropping almost atmy feet, stepping upon the edge of her nest, and offering the morsel toone of her young. We watched the little tableau admiringly (I had neverseen a prettier show of nonchalance), and thanked our stars that we hadbeen saved from an involuntary slaughter of the innocents whiletrampling all about the spot. The nest, which we had tried so hard tofind, was in plain sight, concealed only by the perfect agreement of itscolor with that of the dead pine-branches in the midst of which it wasplaced. The shrewd birds had somehow learned--by experience, perhaps, like ourselves--that those who would escape disagreeable and perilousconspicuity must conform as closely as possible to the world aroundthem. 

According to my observation, the towhee is not much given to singingafter July; but he keeps up his call, which is little less musical thanhis song, till his departure in late September. At that time of the yearthe birds collect together in their favorite haunts; and I remember mydog's running into the edge of a roadside pasture among somecedar-trees, when there broke out such a chorus of _cherawinks_ that Iwas instantly reminded of a swamp full of frogs in April. 

After the tanager the Baltimore oriole (named for Lord Baltimore, whosecolors he wears) is probably the most gorgeous, as he is certainly oneof the best known, of New England birds. He has discovered that men, bad as they are, are less to be dreaded than hawks and weasels, and so, after making sure that his wife is not subject to sea-sickness, heswings his nest boldly from a swaying shade-tree branch, in full view ofwhoever may choose to look at it. Some morning in May--not far from the10th--you will wake to hear him fifing in the elm before your window. Hehas come in the night, and is already making himself at home. Once I sawa pair who on the very first morning had begun to get together materialsfor a nest. His whistle is one of the clearest and loudest, but he makeslittle pretensions to music. I have been pleased and interested, however, to see how tuneful he becomes in August, after most other birdshave ceased to sing, and after a long interval of silence on his ownpart. Early and late he pipes and chatters, as if he imagined that thespring were really coming back again forthwith. What the explanation ofthis lyrical revival may be I have never been able to gather; but thefact itself is very noticeable, so that it would not be amiss to callthe "golden robin" the bird of August. 

The oriole's dusky relatives have the organs of song well developed; andalthough most of the species have altogether lost the art of music, there are none of them, even now, that do not betray more or less of themusical impulse. The red-winged blackbird, indeed, has some reallypraiseworthy notes; and to me--for personal reasons quite aside from anyquestion about its lyrical value--his rough _cucurree_ is one of thevery pleasantest of sounds. For that matter, however, there is no one ofour birds--be he, in technical language, "oscine" or "non-oscine"--whosevoice is not, in its own way, agreeable. Except a few uncommonlysuperstitious people, who does not enjoy the whip-poor-will'strisyllabic exhortation, and the _yak_ of the night-hawk? Bob White'sweather predictions, also, have a wild charm all their own, albeit hispersistent _No more wet_ is often sadly out of accord with the farmer'shopes. We have no more untuneful bird, surely, than the cow bunting; yeteven the serenades of this shameless polygamist have one merit, --theyare at least amusing. With what infinite labor he brings forth hisforlorn, broken-winded whistle, while his tail twitches convulsively, asif tail and larynx were worked by the same spring!

The judging, comparing spirit, the conscientious dread of beingignorantly happy when a broader culture would enable us to beintelligently miserable, --this has its place, unquestionably, in concerthalls; but if we are to make the best use of out-door minstrelsy, wemust learn to take things as we find them, throwing criticism to thewinds. Having said which, I am bound to go further still, and toacknowledge that on looking back over the first part of this paper Ifeel more than half ashamed of the strictures therein passed upon thebluebird and the brown thrush. When I heard the former's salutation froma Boston Common elm on the morning, of the 22d of February last, I saidto myself that no music, not even the nightingale's, could ever besweeter. Let him keep on, by all means, in his own artless way, payingno heed to what I have foolishly written about his shortcomings. As forthe thrasher's smile-provoking gutturals, I recall that even in thesymphonies of the greatest of masters there are here and there quaintbassoon phrases, which have, and doubtless were intended to have, asomewhat whimsical effect; and remembering this, I am ready to own thatI was less wise than I thought myself when I found so much fault withthe thrush's performance. I have sins enough to answer for: may thisnever be added to them, that I set up my taste against that of Beethovenand _Harporhynchus rufus_. 

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Since this was written I have heard the creeper sing a tune verydifferent from the one described above. See p. 227. 

 WINTER BIRDS ABOUT BOSTON. 

 Not much to find, not much to see; But the air was fresh, the path was free. 

 W. ALLINGHAM. 

 WINTER BIRDS ABOUT BOSTON. 

A weed has been defined as a plant the use of which is not yetdiscovered. If the definition be correct there are few weeds. For theresearches of others beside human investigators must be taken into theaccount. What we complacently call the world below us is full ofintelligence. Every animal has a lore of its own; not one of them butis--what the human scholar is more and more coming to be--a specialist. In these days the most eminent botanists are not ashamed to comparenotes with the insects, since it turns out that these bits of animatewisdom long ago anticipated some of the latest improvements of ourmodern systematists. [20] We may see the red squirrel eating, with realepicurean zest, mushrooms, the white and tender flesh of which we haveourselves looked at longingly, but have never dared to taste. How amusedhe would be (I fear he would even be rude enough to snicker) were you tocaution him against poison! As if _Sciurus Hudsonius_ didn't know whathe were about! Why should men be so provincial as to pronounce anythingworthless merely because _they_ can do nothing with it? The clover isnot without value, although the robin and the oriole may agree to thinkso. We know better; and so do the rabbits and the humblebees. The wiserespect their own quality wherever they see it, and are thankful for agood hint from no matter what quarter. Here is a worthy neighbor of minewhom I hear every summer complaining of the chicory plants whichdisfigure the roadside in front of her windows. She wishes they wereexterminated, every one of them. And they are homely, there is nodenying it, for all the beauty of their individual sky-blue flowers. Nowonder a neat housewife finds them an eyesore. But I never pass the spotin August (I do not pass it at all after that) without seeing that hersis only one side of the story. My approach is sure to startle a fewgoldfinches (and they too are most estimable neighbors), to whom thesescraggy herbs are quite as useful as my excellent lady's apple-treesand pear-trees are to her. I watch them as they circle about in musicalundulations, and then drop down again to finish their repast; and Iperceive that, in spite of its unsightliness, the chicory is not aweed, --its use has been discovered. 

In truth, the lover of birds soon ceases to feel the uncomeliness ofplants of this sort; he even begins to have a peculiar and kindlyinterest in them. A piece of "waste ground, " as it is called, an untidygarden, a wayside thicket of golden-rods and asters, pig-weed andevening primrose, --these come to be almost as attractive a sight to himas a thrifty field of wheat is to an agriculturalist. Taking his cuefrom the finches, he separates plants into two grand divisions, --thosethat shed their seeds in the fall, and those that hold them through thewinter. The latter, especially if they are of a height to overtop aheavy snow-fall, are friends in need to his clients; and he is certainto have marked a few places within the range of his every-day walkswhere, thanks to somebody's shiftlessness, perhaps, they have beenallowed to flourish. 

It is not many years since there were several such winter gardens of thebirds in Commonwealth Avenue, --vacant house-lots overgrown with tallweeds. Hither cause flocks of goldfinches, red-poll linnets, and snowbuntings; and thither I went to watch them. It happened, I remember, that the last two species, which are not to be met with in this regionevery season, were unusually abundant during the first or second year ofmy ornithological enthusiasm. Great was the delight with which I addedthem to the small but rapidly increasing list of my featheredacquaintances. 

The red-polls and the goldfinches often travel together, or at least areoften to be found feeding in company; and as they resemble each other agood deal in size, general appearance, and ways, the casual observer isvery likely not to discriminate between them. Only the summer before thetime of which I speak I had spent a vacation at Mount Wachusett; and aresident of Princeton, noticing my attention to the birds (a taste sopeculiar is not easily concealed), had one day sought an interview withme to inquire whether the "yellow-bird" did not remain in Massachusettsthrough the winter. I explained that we had two birds which commonlywent by that name and asked whether he meant the one with a blackforehead and black wings and tail. Yes, he said, that was the one. Iassured him, of course, that this bird, the goldfinch, did stay with usall the year round, and that whoever had informed him to the contrarymust have understood him to be speaking about the golden warbler. Heexpressed his gratification, but declared that he had really entertainedno doubt of the fact himself; he had often seen the birds on themountain when he had been cutting wood there in midwinter. At suchtimes, he added, they were very tame, and would come about his feet topick up crumbs while he was eating his dinner. Then he went on to tellme that at that season of the year their plumage took on more or less ofa reddish tinge: he had seen in the same flock some with no trace ofred, others that were slightly touched with it, and others still of areally bright color. At this I had nothing to say, save that his redbirds, whatever else they were, could not have been goldfinches. Butnext winter, when I saw the "yellow-birds" and the red-poll linnetsfeeding together in Commonwealth Avenue, I thought at once of myWachusett friend. Here was the very scene he had so faithfullydescribed, --some of the flock with no red at all, some with red crowns, and a few with bright carmine crowns and breasts. They remained allwinter, and no doubt thought the farmers of Boston a very good and wiseset, to cultivate the evening primrose so extensively. This plant, likethe succory, is of an ungraceful aspect; yet it has sweet and beautifulblossoms, and as an herb bearing seed is in the front rank. I doubtwhether we have any that surpass it, the birds being judges. 

Many stories are told of the red-polls' fearlessness and readyreconciliation to captivity, as well as of their constancy to eachother. I have myself stood still in the midst of a flock, until theywere feeding round my feet so closely that it looked easy enough tocatch one or two of them with a butterfly net. Strange that creatures sogentle and seemingly so delicately organized should choose to live inthe regions about the North Pole! Why should they prefer Labrador andGreenland, Iceland and Spitzbergen, to more southern countries? Why?Well, possibly for no worse a reason than this, that these are the landsof their fathers. Other birds, it may be, have grown discouraged, andone after another ceased to come back to their native shores as therigors of the climate have increased; but these little patriots arestill faithful. Spitzbergen is home, and every spring they make the longand dangerous passage to it. All praise to them!

If any be ready to call this an over-refinement, deeming it incrediblethat beings so small and lowly should come so near to human sentimentand virtue, let such not be too hasty with their dissent. Surely theymay in reason wait till they can point to at least one country where themen are as universally faithful to their wives and children as the birdsare to theirs. 

The red-poll linnets, as I have said, are irregular visitors in thisregion; several years may pass, and not one be seen; but the goldfinchwe have with us always. Easily recognized as he is, there are manywell-educated New-Englanders, I fear, who do not know him, even bysight; yet when that distinguished ornithologist, the Duke of Argyll, comes to publish his impressions of this country, he avers that he hasbeen hardly more interested in the "glories of Niagara" than in thissame little yellow-bird, which he saw for the first time while lookingfrom his hotel window at the great cataract. "A golden finch, indeed!"he exclaims. Such a tribute as this from the pen of a British noblemanought to give _Astragalinus tristis_ immediate entrance into the verybest of American society. 

It is common to say that the goldfinches wander about the country duringthe winter. Undoubtedly this is true in a measure; but I have seenthings which lead me to suspect that the statement is sometimes made toosweeping. Last winter, for example, a flock took up their quarters in acertain neglected piece of ground on the side of Beacon Street, closeupon the boundary between Boston and Brookline, and remained therenearly or quite the whole season. Week after week I saw them in the sameplace, accompanied always by half a dozen tree sparrows. They had founda spot to their mind, with plenty of succory and evening primrose, andwere wise enough not to forsake it for any uncertainty. 

The goldfinch loses his bright feathers and canary-like song as the coldseason approaches, but not even a New England winter can rob him of hissweet call and his cheerful spirits; and for one, I think him never morewinsome than when he bangs in graceful attitudes above a snow-bank, on ableak January morning. 

Glad as we are of the society of the goldfinches and the red-polls atthis time of the year, we cannot easily rid ourselves of a degree ofsolicitude for their comfort; especially if we chance to come upon themafter sunset on some bitterly cold day, and mark with what a nervoushaste they snatch here and there a seed, making the utmost of the fewremaining minutes of twilight. They will go to bed hungry and cold, wethink, and were surely better off in a milder clime. But, if I am tojudge from my own experience, the snow buntings awaken no suchemotions. Arctic explorers by instinct, they come to us only with realarctic weather, and almost seem to be themselves a part of thesnow-storm with which they arrive. No matter what they are doing:running along the street before an approaching sleigh; standing on awayside fence; jumping up from the ground to snatch the stem of a weed, and then setting at work hurriedly to gather the seeds they have shakendown; or, best of all, skimming over the snow in close order, theirwhite breasts catching the sun as they veer this way or that, --whateverthey may be doing, they are the most picturesque of all our cold-weatherbirds. In point of suspiciousness their behavior is very different atdifferent times, as, for that matter, is true of birds generally. Seeingthe flock alight in a low roadside lot, you steal silently to the edgeof the sidewalk to look over upon them. There they are, sure enough, walking and running about, only a few rods distant. What lovelycreatures, and how prettily they walk! But just as you are wishing, perhaps, that they were a little nearer, they begin to fly from rightunder your feet. You search the ground eagerly, right and left, but nota bird can you discover; and still they continue to start up, now here, now there, till you are ready to question whether, indeed, "eyes weremade for seeing. " The "snow-flakes" wear protective colors, and, likemost other animals, are of opinion that, for such as lack the receipt offern-seed, there is often nothing safer than to sit still. The worse theweather, the less timorous they are, for with them, as with wiser heads, one thought drives out another; and it is nothing uncommon, when timesare hard, to see them stay quietly upon the fence while a sleigh goespast, or suffer a foot passenger to come again and again within a fewyards. 

It gives a lively touch to the imagination to overtake these beautifulstrangers in the middle of Beacon Street; particularly if one has latelybeen reading about them in some narrative of Siberian travel. Comingfrom so far, associating in flocks, with costumes so becoming and yet sounusual, they might be expected to attract universal notice, andpossibly to get into the newspapers. But there is a fashion even aboutseeing; and of a thousand persons who may take a Sunday promenade overthe Mill-dam, while these tourists from the North Pole are there, it isdoubtful whether a dozen are aware of their presence. Birds feeding inthe street? Yes, yes; English sparrows, of course; we haven't any otherbirds in Boston nowadays, you know. 

With the pine grosbeaks the case is different. When a man sees a companyof rather large birds about the evergreens in his door-yard, most ofthem of a neutral ashy-gray tint, but one or two in suits of rose-color, he is pretty certain to feel at least a momentary curiosity about them. Their slight advantage in size counts for something; for, withoutcontroversy, the bigger the bird the more worthy he is of notice. Andthen the bright color! The very best men are as yet but imperfectlycivilized, and there must be comparatively few, even of Bostonians, inwhom there is not some lingering susceptibility to the fascination ofred feathers. Add to these things the fact that the grosbeaks areextremely confiding, and much more likely than the buntings to be seenfrom the windows of the house, and you have, perhaps, a sufficientexplanation of the more general interest they excite. Like the snowbuntings and the red-polls, they roam over the higher latitudes ofEurope, Asia, and America, and make only irregular visits to our cornerof the world. [21]

I cannot boast of any intimate acquaintance with them. I have nevercaught them in a net, or knocked them over with a club, as otherpersons have done, although I have seen them when their tamenesspromised success to any such loving experiment. Indeed, it was severalyears before my lookout for them was rewarded. Then, one day, I saw aflock of about ten fly across Beacon Street, --on the edge ofBrookline, --and alight in an apple-tree; at which I forthwith clamberedover the picket-fence after them, heedless alike of the deep snow andthe surprise of any steady-going citizen who might chance to witness myhigh-handed proceeding. Some of the birds were feeding upon the rottenapples; picking them off the tree, and taking them to one of the largemain branches or to the ground, and there tearing them to pieces, --forthe sake of the seeds, I suppose. The rest sat still, doing nothing. Iwas most impressed with the exceeding mildness and placidity of theirdemeanor; as if they had time enough, plenty to eat, and nothing tofear. Their only notes were in quality much like the goldfinch's, andhardly louder, but without his characteristic inflection. I left thewhole company seated idly in a maple-tree, where, to all appearance, they proposed to observe the remainder of the day as a Sabbath. 

Last winter the grosbeaks were uncommonly abundant. I found a number ofthem within a few rods of the place just mentioned; this time inevergreen trees, and so near the road that I had no call to committrespass. Evergreens are their usual resort, --so, at least, I gatherfrom books, --but I have seen them picking up provender from abare-looking last year's garden. Natives of the inhospitable North, theyhave learned by long experience how to adapt themselves tocircumstances. If one resource fails, there is always another to betried. Let us hope that they even know how to show fight upon, occasion. 

The purple finch--a small copy of the pine grosbeak, as the indigo birdis of the blue grosbeak--is a summer rather than a winter bird with us;yet he sometimes passes the cold season in Eastern Massachusetts, andeven in Northern New Hampshire. I have never heard him sing moregloriously than once when the ground was deep under the snow; awonderfully sweet and protracted warble, poured out while the singercircled about in the air with a kind of half-hovering flight. 

As I was walking briskly along a West End street, one cold morning inMarch, I heard a bird's note close at hand, and, looking down, discovered a pair of these finches in a front yard. The male, in brightplumage, was flitting about his mate, calling anxiously, while she, poorthing, sat motionless upon the snow, too sick or too badly exhausted tofly. I stroked her feathers gently while she perched on my finger, andthen resumed my walk; first putting her into a little more shelteredposition on the sill of a cellar window, and promising to call on my wayback, when, if she were no better, I would take her home with me, andgive her a warm room and good nursing. When I returned, however, she wasnowhere to be found. Her mate, I regret to say, both on his own accountand for the sake of the story, had taken wing and disappeared the momentI entered the yard. Possibly he came back and encouraged her to fly offwith him; or perhaps some cat made a Sunday breakfast of her. The truthwill never be known; our vigilant city police take no cognizance oftragedies so humble. 

For several years a few song sparrows--a pair or two, at least--havewintered in a piece of ground just beyond the junction of Beacon streetand Brookline Avenue. I have grown accustomed to listen for their_tseep_ as I go by the spot, and occasionally I catch sight of one ofthem perched upon a weed, or diving under the plank sidewalk. It wouldbe a pleasure to know the history of the colony: how it started; whetherthe birds are the same year after year, as I suppose to be the case; andwhy this particular site was selected. The lot is small, with no woodsor bushy thicket near, while it has buildings in one corner, and isbounded on its three sides by the streets and the railway; but it isfull of a rank growth of weeds, especially a sturdy species of aster andthe evergreen golden-rod, and I suspect that the plank walk, which onone side is raised some distance from the ground, is found serviceablefor shelter in severe weather, as it is certainly made to take the placeof shrubbery for purposes of concealment. 

Fortunately, birds, even those of the same species, are not all exactlyalike in their tastes and manner of life. So, while by far the greaterpart of our song sparrows leave us in the fall, there are always somewho prefer to stay. They have strong local attachments, perhaps; or theydread the fatigue and peril of the journey; or they were onceincapacitated for flight when their companions went away, and, havingfound a Northern winter not so unendurable as they had expected, havesince done from choice what at first they did of necessity. Whatevertheir reasons, --and we cannot be presumed to have guessed half ofthem, --at all events a goodly number of song sparrows do winter inMassachusetts, where they open the musical season before the first ofthe migrants make their appearance. I doubt, however, whether many ofthem choose camping grounds so exposed and public as this in the rearof the "Half-way House. "

Our only cold-weather thrushes are the robins. They may be found anytime in favorable situations; and even in so bleak a place as BostonCommon I have seen them in every month of the year except February. Thisexception, moreover, is more apparent than real, --at the most a matterof but twenty-four hours, since I once saw four birds in a tree near theFrog Pond on the last day of January. The house sparrows were as muchsurprised as I was at the sight, and, with characteristic urbanity, gathered from far and near to sit in the same tree with the visitors, and stare at them. 

We cannot help being grateful to the robins and the song sparrows, whogive us their society at so great a cost; but their presence canscarcely be thought to enliven the season. At its best their bearing isonly that of patient submission to the inevitable. They remind us of thesummer gone and the summer coming, rather than brighten the winter thatis now upon us; like friends who commiserate us in some affliction, butare not able to comfort us. How different the chickadee! In the worstweather his greeting is never of condolence, but of good cheer. He hasno theory upon the subject, probably; he is no Shepherd of SalisburyPlain; but he knows better than to waste the exhilarating air of thiswild and frosty day in reminiscences of summer time. It is apretty-sounding couplet, --

 "Thou hast no morrow in thy song, No winter in thy year, "--

but rather incongruous, he would think. _Chickadee, dee_, hecalls, --_chickadee, dee_; and though the words have no exact equivalentin English, their meaning is felt by all such as are worthy to hearthem. 

Are the smallest birds really the most courageous, or does anunconscious sympathy on our part inevitably give them odds in thecomparison? Probably the latter supposition comes nearest the truth. When a sparrow chases a butcher-bird we cheer the sparrow, and then whena humming-bird puts to flight a sparrow, we cheer the humming-bird; weside with the kingbird against the crow, and with the vireo, against thekingbird. It is a noble trait of human nature--though we are somewhattoo ready to boast of it--that we like, as we say, to see the littlefellow at the top. These remarks are made, not with any reference to thechickadee, --I admit no possibility of exaggeration in his case, --but asleading to a mention of the golden-crested kinglet. He is the least ofall our winter birds, and one of the most engaging. Emerson's "atom infull breath" and "scrap of valor" would apply to him even better than tothe titmouse. He says little, --_zee, zee, zee_ is nearly the limit ofhis vocabulary; but his lively demeanor and the grace and agility of hismovements are in themselves an excellent language, speaking infallibly acontented mind. (It is a fact, on which I forbear to moralize, thatbirds seldom look unhappy except when they are idle. ) His diminutivesize attracts attention even from those who rarely notice such things. About the first of December, a year ago, I was told of a man who hadshot a humming-bird only a few days before in the vicinity of Boston. Ofcourse I expressed a polite surprise, and assured my informant that sucha remarkable capture ought by all means to be put on record in "TheAuk, " as every ornithologist in the land would be interested in it. Onthis he called upon the lucky sportsman's brother, who happened to bestanding by, to corroborate the story. Yes, the latter said, the factwas as had been stated. "But then, " he continued, "the bird didn't havea _long bill_, like a humming-bird;" and when I suggested that perhapsits crown was yellow, bordered with black, he said, "Yes, yes; that'sthe bird, exactly. " So easy are startling discoveries to an observer whohas just the requisite amount of knowledge, --enough, and (especially)not too much!

The brown creeper is quite as industrious and good-humored as thekinglet, but he is less taking in his personal appearance and lessromantic in his mode of life. The same may be said of our twoblack-and-white woodpeckers, the downy and the hairy; while their moreshowy but less hardy relative, the flicker, evidently feels the weathera burden. The creeper and these three woodpeckers are with us in limitednumbers every winter; and in the season of 1881-82 we had an altogetherunexpected visit from the red-headed woodpecker, --such a thing as hadnot been known for a long time, if ever. Where the birds came from, andwhat was the occasion of their journey, nobody could tell. They arrivedearly in the autumn, and went away, with the exception of a fewstragglers, in the spring; and as far as I know have never been seensince. It is a great pity they did not like us well enough to comeagain; for they are wide-awake, entertaining creatures, and gorgeouslyattired. I used to watch them in the oak groves of some Longwoodestates, but it was not till our second or third interview that Idiscovered them to be the authors of a mystery over which I had beenexercising my wits in vain, a tree-frog's note in winter! One of theiramusements was to drum on the tin girdles of the shade trees; andmeanwhile they themselves afforded a pastime to the gray squirrels, whowere often to be seen creeping stealthily after them, as if theyimagined that _Melanerpes erythrocephalus_ might possibly be caught, ifonly he were hunted long enough. I laughed at them; but, after all, their amusing hallucination was nothing but the sportsman's instinct;and life would soon lose its charm for most of us, sportsmen or not, ifwe could no longer pursue the unattainable. 

Probably my experience is not singular, but there are certain birds, well known to be more or less abundant in this neighborhood, which forsome reason or other I have seldom, if ever, met. For example, of themultitude of pine finches which now and then overrun EasternMassachusetts in winter I have never seen one, while on the other hand Iwas once lucky enough to come upon a few of the very much smaller numberwhich pass the summer in Northern New Hampshire. This was in the WhiteMountain Notch, first on Mount Willard and then near the Crawford House, at which latter place they were feeding on the lawn and along therailway track as familiarly as the goldfinches. 

The shore larks, too, are no doubt common near Boston for a part ofevery year; yet I found half a dozen five or six years ago in the marshbeside a Back Bay street, and have seen none since. One of these stoodupon a pile of earth, singing to himself in an undertone, while the restwere feeding in the grass. Whether the singer was playing sentinel, andsounded an alarm, I was not sure, but all at once the flock started off, as if on a single pair of wings. 

Birds which elude the observer in this manner year after year onlyrender themselves all the more interesting. They are like other specieswith which we deem ourselves well acquainted, but which suddenly appearin some quite unlooked-for time or place. The long-expected and theunexpected have both an especial charm. I have elsewhere avowed myfavoritism for the white-throated sparrow; but I was never moredelighted to see him than on one Christmas afternoon. I was walking in aback road, not far from the city, when I descried a sparrow ahead of me, feeding in the path, and, coming nearer, recognized my friend thewhite-throat. He held his ground till the last moment (time was preciousto him that short day), and then flew into a bush to let me pass, whichI had no sooner done than he was back again; and on my return the samething was repeated. Far and near the ground was white, but just at thisplace the snow-plough had scraped bare a few square feet of earth, andby great good fortune this solitary and hungry straggler had hit uponit. I wondered what he would do when the resources of this garden patchwere exhausted, but consoled myself with thinking that by this time hemust be well used to living by his wits, and would probably find a wayto do so even in his present untoward circumstances. 

The snow-birds (not to be confounded with the snow buntings) should haveat least a mention in such a paper as this. They are among the mostfamiliar and constant of our winter guests, although very much lessnumerous at that time than in spring and autumn, when the fields andlanes are fairly alive with them. 

A kind word must be said for the shrike, also, who during the threecoldest months is to be seen on the Common oftener than any other of ournative birds. _There_, at all events, he is doing a good work. May helive to finish it!

The blue jay stands by us, of course. You will not go far withouthearing his scream, and catching at least a distant view of his splendidcoat, which he is too consistent a dandy to put off for one of a dullershade, let the season shift as it will. He is not always good-natured;but none the less he is generally in good spirits (he seems to enjoyhis bad temper), and, all in all, is not to be lightly esteemed in atime when bright feathers are scarce. 

As for the jay's sable relatives, they are the most conspicuous birds inthe winter landscape. You may possibly walk to Brookline and backwithout hearing a chickadee, or a blue jay, or even a goldfinch; but youwill never miss sight and sound of the crows. Black against white is acontrast hard to be concealed. Sometimes they are feeding in the street, sometimes stalking about the marshes; but oftenest they are on the icein the river, near the water's edge. For they know the use of friends, although they have never heard of Lord Bacon's "last fruit offriendship, " and would hardly understand what that provident philosophermeant by saying that "the best way to represent to life the manifold useof friendship is to cast and see how many things there are which a mancannot do himself. " How aptly their case illustrates the not unusualcoexistence of formal ignorance with real knowledge! Having theirSouthern brother's fondness for fish without his skill in catching it, they adopt a plan worthy of the great essayist himself, --they court thesociety of the gulls; and with a temper eminently philosophical, not tosay Baconian, they cheerfully sit at their patrons' second table. Fromthe Common you may see them almost any day (in some seasons, at least)flying back and forth between the river and the harbor. One morning inearly March I witnessed quite a procession, one small company afteranother, the largest numbering eleven birds, though it was nothing tocompare with what seems to be a daily occurrence at some places furthersouth. At another time, in the middle of January, I saw what appeared tobe a flock of herring gulls sailing over the city, making progress intheir own wonderfully beautiful manner, circle after circle. But Inoticed that about a dozen of them were black! What were these? If theycould have held their peace I might have gone home puzzled; but the crowis in one respect a very polite bird: he will seldom fly over your headwithout letting fall the compliments of the morning, and a vigorous_caw, caw_ soon proclaimed my black gulls to be simply erratic specimensof _Corvus Americanus_. Why were they conducting thus strangely? Hadthey become so attached to their friends as to have taken to imitatingthem unconsciously? Or were they practicing upon the vanity of theseuseful allies of theirs, these master fishermen? Who can answer? Theways of shrewd people are hard to understand; and in all New Englandthere is no shrewder Yankee than the crow. 

FOOTNOTES:

[20] See a letter by Dr. Fritz Müller, "Butterflies as Botanists:"_Nature_, vol. Xxx. P. 240. Of similar import is the case, cited by Dr. Asa Gray (in the _American Journal of Science_, November, 1884, p. 325), of two species of plantain found in this country, which students haveonly of late discriminated, although it turns out that the cows have allalong known them apart, eating one and declining the other, --the bovinetaste being more exact, it would seem, or at any rate more prompt, thanthe botanist's lens. 

[21] Unlike the snow bunting and the red-poll, however, the pinegrosbeak is believed to breed sparingly in Northern New England. 

 A BIRD-LOVER'S APRIL

 There shall be Beautiful things made new, for the surprise Of the sky-children. 

 KEATS. 

 Everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet these is a silent joy at their arrival. 

 COLERIDGE. 

 A BIRD-LOVER'S APRIL. 

It began on the 29th of March; in the afternoon of which day, despitethe authority of the almanac and the banter of my acquaintances (Marchwas March to them, and it was nothing more), I shook off the city's dustfrom my feet, and went into summer quarters. The roads werecomparatively dry; the snow was entirely gone, except a patch or two inthe shadow of thick pines under the northerly side of a hill; and alltokens seemed to promise an early spring. So much I learned before thehastening twilight cut short my first brief turn out-of-doors. In themorning would be time enough to discover what birds had already reportedthemselves at my station. 

Unknown to me, however, our national weather bureau had announced asnow-storm, and in the morning I drew aside the curtains to look outupon a world all in white, with a cold, high wind blowing and snowfalling fast. "The worst Sunday of the winter, " the natives said. The"summer boarder" went to church, of course. To have done otherwise mighthave been taken for a confession of weakness; as if inclemency of thissort were more than he had bargained for. The villagers, lacking anysuch spur to right conduct, for the most part stayed at home; feeling itnot unpleasant, I dare say, some of them, to have a natural inclinationprovidentially confirmed, even at the cost of an hour's exercise withthe shovel. The bravest parishioner of all, and the sweetestsinger, --the song sparrow by name, --was not in the meeting-house, but bythe roadside. What if the wind did blow, and the mercury stand atfifteen or twenty degrees below the freezing point? In cold as in heat"the mind is its own place. "

Three days after this came a second storm, one of the heaviestsnow-falls of the year. The robins were reduced to picking up seeds inthe asparagus bed. The bluebirds appeared to be trying to gleansomething from the bark of trees, clinging rather awkwardly to the trunkmeanwhile. (They are given to this, more or less, at all times, and itpossibly has some connection with their half-woodpeckerish habit ofnestling in holes. ) Some of the snow-birds were doing likewise; Inoticed one traveling up a trunk, --which inclined a good deal, to besure, --exploring the crannies right and left, like any creeper. Half adozen or more phoebes were in the edge of a wood; and they too seemedto have found out that, if worst came to worst, the tree-boles wouldyield a pittance for their relief. They often hovered against them, pecking hastily at the bark, and one at least was struggling for afoothold on the perpendicular surface. Most of the time, however, theywent skimming over the snow and the brook, in the regular flycatcherstyle. The chickadees were put to little or no inconvenience, since whatwas a desperate makeshift to the others was to them only an every-dayaffair. It would take a long storm to bury their granary. [22] After thetitmice, the fox-colored sparrows had perhaps the best of it. Lookingout places where the snow had collected least, at the foot of a tree oron the edge of water, these adepts at scratching speedily turned upearth enough to checker the white with very considerable patches ofbrown. While walking I continually disturbed song sparrows, foxsparrows, tree sparrows, and snow-birds feeding in the road; and when Isat in my room I was advised of the approach of carriages by seeingthese "pensioners upon the traveler's track" scurry past the window inadvance of them. 

It is pleasant to observe how naturally birds flock together in hardtimes, --precisely as men do, and doubtless for similar reasons. The edgeof the wood, just mentioned, was populous with them: robins, bluebirds, chickadees, fox sparrows, snow-birds, song sparrows, tree sparrows, phoebes, a golden-winged woodpecker, and a rusty blackbird. The last, noticeable for his conspicuous light-colored eye-ring, had somehowbecome separated from his fellows, and remained for several days aboutthis spot entirely alone. I liked to watch his aquatic performances;they might almost have been those of the American dipper himself, Ithought. He made nothing of putting his head and neck clean under water, like a duck, and sometimes waded the brook when the current was sostrong that he was compelled every now and then to stop and bracehimself against it, lest he should be carried off his feet. 

It is clear that birds, sharing the frailty of some who are better thanmany sparrows, are often wanting in patience. As spring draws near theycannot wait for its coming. What it has been the fashion to call theirunerring instinct is after all infallible only as a certain great publicfunctionary is, --in theory; and their mistaken haste is too frequentlynothing but a hurrying to their death. But I saw no evidence that thisparticular storm was attended with any fatal consequences. The snowcompletely disappeared within a day or two; and even while it lasted thesong sparrows, fox sparrows, and linnets could be heard singing with allcheerfulness. On the coldest day, when the mercury settled to withintwelve degrees of zero, I observed that the song sparrows, as they fedin the road, had a trick of crouching till their feathers all buttouched the ground, so protecting their legs against the biting wind. 

The first indications of mating were noticed on the 5th, the partiesbeing two pairs of bluebirds. One of the females was rebuffing hersuitor rather petulantly, but when he flew away she lost no time infollowing. Shall I be accused of slander if I suggest that possibly her_No_ meant nothing worse than _Ask me again?_ I trust not; she was onlya bluebird, remember. Three days later I came upon two couples engagedin house-hunting. In this business the female takes the lead, with asilent, abstracted air, as if the matter were one of absorbing interest;while her mate follows her about somewhat impatiently, and with a gooddeal of talk, which is plainly intended to hasten the decision. "Come, come, " he says; "the season is short, and we can't waste the whole ofit in getting ready. " I never could discover that his eloquence producedmuch effect, however. Her ladyship will have her own way; as indeed sheought to have, good soul, considering that she is to have the discomfortand the hazard. In one case I was puzzled by the fact that there seemedto be two females to one of the opposite sex. It really looked as if thefellow proposed to set up housekeeping with whichever should first finda house to her mind. But this _is_ slander, and I hasten to take itback. No doubt I misinterpreted his behavior; for it is true--withsorrow I confess it--that I am as yet but imperfectly at home in theSialian dialect. 

For the first fortnight my note-book is full of the fox-coloredsparrows. It was worth while to have come into the country ahead oftime, as city people reckon, to get my fill of this Northern songster'smusic. Morning and night, wherever I walked, and even if I remainedin-doors, I was certain to hear the loud and beautiful strain; to whichI listened with the more attention because the birds, I knew, would soonbe off for their native fields, beyond the boundaries of the UnitedStates. 

It is astonishing how gloriously birds may sing, and yet passunregarded. We read of nightingales and skylarks with a self-satisfiedthrill of second-hand enthusiasm, and meanwhile our native songsters, even the best of them, are piping unheeded at our very doors. There mayhave been half a dozen of the town's people who noticed the presence ofthese fox sparrows, but I think it doubtful; and yet the birds, thelargest, handsomest, and most musical of all our many sparrows, were, asI say, abundant everywhere, and in full voice. 

One afternoon I stood still while a fox sparrow and a song sparrow sangalternately on either side of me, both exceptionally good vocalists, andeach doing his best. The songs were of about equal length, and as far astheme was concerned were not a little alike; but the fox sparrow's tonewas both louder and more mellow than the other's, while his notes werelonger, --more sustained, --and his voice was "carried" from one pitch toanother. On the whole, I had no hesitation about giving him the palm;but I am bound to say that his rival was a worthy competitor. In somerespects, indeed, the latter was the more interesting singer of the two. His opening measure of three _pips_ was succeeded by a trill of quitepeculiar brilliancy and perfection; and when the other bird had ceasedhe suddenly took a lower perch, and began to rehearse an altogetherdifferent tune in a voice not more than half as loud as what he hadbeen using; after which, as if to cap the climax, he several timesfollowed the tune with a detached phrase or two in a still faintervoice. This last was pretty certainly an improvised cadenza, such athing as I do not remember ever to have heard before from _Melospizamelodia_. 

The song of the fox sparrow has at times an almost thrush-like quality;and the bird himself, as he flies up in front of you, might easily bemistaken for some member of that noble family. Once, indeed, when I sawhim eating burning-bush berries in a Boston garden, I was half ready tobelieve that I had before my eyes a living example of the development ofone species out of another, --a finch already well on his way to become athrush. Most often, however, his voice puts me in mind of the cardinalgrosbeak's; his voice, and perhaps still more his cadence, andespecially his practice of the _portamento_. 

The 11th of the month was sunny, and the next morning I came back frommy accustomed rounds under a sense of bereavement: the fox sparrows weregone. Where yesterday there had been hundreds of them, now I could findonly two silent stragglers. They had been well scattered over thetownship, --here a flock and there a flock; but in some way--I should beglad to have anybody tell me how--the word had passed from company tocompany that after sundown Friday night all hands would set out oncemore on their northward journey. There was one man, at least, who missedthem, and in the comparative silence which followed their departureappreciated anew how much they had contributed to fill the wet andchilly April mornings with melody and good cheer. 

The snow-birds tarried longer, but from this date became less and lessabundant. For the first third of the month they had been as numerous, Icalculated, as all other species put together. On one occasion I saw alarge company of them chasing an albino, the latter dashing wildly rounda pine-tree, with the whole flock in furious pursuit. They drove himoff, across an impassable morass, before I could get close enough reallyto see him, but I presumed him to be of their own kind. As far as Icould make out he was entirely white. For the moment it lasted, it wasan exciting scene; and I was especially gratified to notice with whatextreme heartiness and unanimity the birds discountenanced their waywardbrother's heterodoxy. I agreed with them that one who cannot be contentto dress like other people ought not to be allowed to live with them. The world is large, --let him go to Rhode Island!

On the evening of the 6th, just at dusk, I had started up the road for alazy after-dinner saunter, when I was brought to a sudden halt by whaton the instant I took for the cry of a night-hawk. But no night-hawkcould be here thus early in the season, and listening further, Iperceived that the bird, if bird it was, was on the ground, or, at anyrate, not far from it. Then it flashed upon me that this was the note ofthe woodcock, which I had that very day startled upon this samehillside. Now, then, for another sight of his famous aerial courtshipact! So, scrambling down the embankment, and clambering over thestone-wall, I pushed up the hill through bushes and briers, till, havingcome as near the bird as I dared, I crouched, and awaited furtherdevelopments. I had not long to wait, for after a few _yaks_, atintervals of perhaps fifteen or twenty seconds, the fellow took to wing, and went soaring in a circle above me; calling hurriedly _click, click, click_, with a break now and then, as if for breath-taking. All this herepeated several times; but unfortunately it was too dark for me to seehim, except as he crossed a narrow illuminated strip of sky just abovethe horizon line. I judged that he mounted to a very considerableheight, and dropped invariably into the exact spot from which he hadstarted. For a week or two I listened every night for a repetition ofthe yak; but I heard nothing more of it for a month. Then it came to myears again, this time from a field between the road and a swamp. Watching my opportunity, while the bird was in the air, I hastenedacross the field, and stationed myself against a small cedar. He wasstill _clicking_ high overhead, but soon alighted silently within twentyyards of where I was standing, and commenced to "bleat, " prefacing each_yak_ with a fainter syllable which I had never before been near enoughto detect. Presently he started once more on his skyward journey. Up hewent, in a large spiral, "higher still and higher" till the cedar cutoff my view for an instant, after which I could not again get my eyeupon him. Whether he saw me or not I cannot tell, but he dropped to theground some rods away, and did not make another ascension, although hecontinued to call irregularly, and appeared to be walking about thefield. Perhaps by this time the fair one for whose benefit all thisparade was intended had come out of the swamp to meet and reward heradmirer. 

Hoping for a repetition of the same programme on the following night, Iinvited a friend from the city to witness it with me; one who, lessfortunate than the "forest seer, " had never "heard the woodcock'sevening hymn, " notwithstanding his knowledge of birds is a thousand-foldmore than mine, as all students of American ornithology wouldunhesitatingly avouch were I to mention his name. We waited till dark;but though _Philohela_ was there, and sounded his _yak_ two or threetimes, --just enough to excite our hopes, --yet for some reason he kept to_terra firma_. Perhaps he was aware of our presence, and disdained toexhibit himself in the _rôle_ of a wooer under our profane and curiousgaze; or possibly, as my more scientific (and less sentimental)companion suggested, the light breeze may have been counted unfavorablefor such high-flying exploits. 

After all, our matter-of-fact world is surprisingly full of romance. Whowould have expected to find this heavy-bodied, long-billed, gross-looking, bull-headed bird singing at heaven's gate? _He_ a"scorner of the ground"? Verily, love worketh wonders! And perhaps it isreally true that the outward semblance is sometimes deceptive. To becandid, however, I must end with confessing that, after listening to thewoodcock's "hymn" a good many times, first and last, I cannot helpthinking that it takes an imaginative ear to discover anything properlyto be called a song in its monotonous _click, click_, even at itsfastest and loudest. [23]

While I was enjoying the farewell _matinée_ of the fox-colored sparrowson the 11th, suddenly there ran into the chorus the fine silver threadof the winter wren's tune. Here was pleasure unexpected. It is down inall the books, I believe, that this bird does not sing while on histravels; and certainly I had myself never known him to do anything ofthe sort before. But there is always something new under the sun. 

 "Who ever heard of th' Indian Peru? Or who in venturous vessell measurèd The Amazon's huge river, now found trew? Or fruitfullest Virginia who did ever vew?"

I was all ear, of course, standing motionless while the delicious musiccame again and again out of a tangle of underbrush behind a dilapidatedstone-wall, --a spot for all the world congenial to this tiny recluse, whose whole life, we may say, is one long game of hide-and-seek. Altogether the song was repeated twenty times at least, and to mythinking I had never heard it given with greater brilliancy and fervor. The darling little minstrel! he will never know how grateful I felt. Ieven forgave him when he sang thrice from a living bush, albeit in sodoing he spoiled a sentence which I had already committed to "thepermanency of print. " Birds of all kinds will play such tricks upon us;but whether the fault be chargeable to fickleness or a mischievousspirit on their part, rather than to undue haste on the part of us theirreporters, is a matter about which I am perhaps not sufficientlydisinterested to judge. In this instance, however, it was reasonablycertain that the singer did not show himself intentionally; for unlessthe whole tenor of his life belies him, the winter wren's motto is, Little birds should be heard, and not seen. 

Two days afterward I was favored again in like manner. But not by thesame bird, I think; unless my hearing was at fault (the singer wasfurther off than before), this one's tune was in places somewhat brokenand hesitating, --as if he were practicing a lesson not yet fullylearned. 

I felt under a double obligation to these two specimens of _Anorthuratroglodytes hiemalis_: first for their music itself; and then for thesupport which it gave to a pet theory of mine, that all our singingbirds will yet be found to sing more or less regularly in the course ofthe vernal migration. 

Within another forty-eight hours this same theory received additionalconfirmation. I was standing under an apple-tree, watching a pair oftitmice who were hollowing out a stub for a nest, when my ear caught anovel song not far away. Of course I made towards it; but the bird flewoff, across the road and into the woods. My hour was up, and Ireluctantly started homeward, but had gone only a few rods before thesong was repeated. This was more than human nature could bear, and, turning back upon the run, I got into the woods just in time to see twobirds chasing each other round a tree, both uttering the very noteswhich had so roused my curiosity. Then away they went; but as I wasagain bewailing my evil luck, one of them returned, and flew into theoak, directly over my head, and as he did so fell to calling anew, _Sue, suky, suky_. A single glance upward revealed that this was another ofthe silent migrants, --a brown creeper! Only once before had I heard fromhim anything beside his customary lisping _zee_, _zee_; and even onthat occasion (in June and in New Hampshire) the song bore noresemblance to his present effort. I have written it down as it soundedat the moment, _Sue_, _suky_, _suky_, five notes, the first longer thanthe others, and all of them brusque, loud, and musical, though withsomething of a warbler quality. [24]

It surprised me to find how the migratory movement lagged for the firsthalf of the month. A pair of white-breasted swallows flew over my headwhile I was attending to the winter wren on the 11th, and on the 14thappeared the first pine-creeping warblers, --welcome for their own sakes, and doubly so as the forerunners of a numerous and splendid company; butaside from these two, I saw no evidence that a single new speciesarrived at my station for the entire fortnight. 

Robins sang sparingly from the beginning, and became perceptibly moremusical on the 8th, with signs of mating and jealousy; but the realrobin carnival did not open till the morning of the 14th. Then thechange was wonderful. Some of the birds were flying this way and that, high in air, two or three together; others chased each other aboutnearer the ground; some were screaming, some hissing, and more singing. So sudden was the outbreak and so great the commotion that I waspersuaded there must have been an arrival of females in the night. 

I have heard it objected against these thrushes, whose extremecommonness renders them less highly esteemed than they would otherwisebe, that they find their voices too early in the morning. But I am notmyself prepared to second the criticism. They are not often at theirmatins, I think, until the eastern sky begins to flush, and it is notquite certain to my mind that they are wrong in assuming that daylightmakes daytime. I have questioned before now whether our own custom ofsitting up for five or six hours after sunset, and then lying abed twoor three hours after sunrise, may not have come down to us from timeswhen there were still people in the world who loved darkness rather thanlight, because their deeds were evil; and whether, after all, in this asin some other respects, we might not wisely take pattern of the fowls ofthe air. 

Individually, the phoebes were almost as noisy as the robins, but ofcourse their numbers were far less. They are models of perseverance. Were their voice equal to the nightingale's they could hardly be moreassiduous and enthusiastic in its use. As a general thing they arecontent to repeat the simple _Phoebe, Phoebe_ (there are moods inthe experience of all of us, I hope, when the repetition of a name is byitself music sufficient), but it is not uncommon for this to beheightened to _Phoebe, O Phoebe_; and now and then you will hearsome fellow calling excitedly, _Phoebe, Phoebe-be-be-be-be_, --acomical sort of stuttering, in which the difficulty is not in gettinghold of the first syllable, but in letting go the last one. On the 15thI witnessed a certain other performance of theirs, --one that I had seentwo or three times the season previous, and for which I had been on thelookout from the first day of the month. I heard a series of _chips_, which might have been the cries of a chicken, but which, it appeared, did proceed from a phoebe, who, as I looked up, was just in the act ofquitting his perch on the ridge-pole of a barn. He rose for perhapsthirty feet, not spirally, but in a zigzag course, --like a horseclimbing a hill with a heavy load, --all the time calling, _chip, chip, chip_. Then he went round and round in a small circle, with a kind ofhovering action of the wings, vociferating hurriedly, _Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe_; after which he shot down into the top of a tree, and with a lively flirt of his tail took up again the same eloquenttheme. During the next few weeks I several times found birds of thisspecies similarly engaged. And it is worthy of remark that, of the fourflycatchers which regularly pass the summer with us, three may be saidto be, in the _habit_ of singing in the air, while the fourth (the woodpewee) does the same thing, only with less frequency. It is curious, also, on the other hand, that not one of our eight common New Englandthrushes, as far as I have ever seen or heard, shows the least tendencytoward any such state of lyrical exaltation. Yet the thrushes are songbirds _par excellence_, while the phoebe, the least flycatcher, andthe kingbird are not supposed to be able to sing at all. The latter havethe soul of music in them, at any rate; and why should it not be true ofbirds, as it is of human poets and would-be poets, that sensibility andfaculty are not always found together? Perhaps those who have nothingbut the sensibility have, after all, the better half of the blessing. 

The golden-winged woodpeckers shouted comparatively little before themiddle of the month, and I heard nothing of their tender _wick-a-wick_until the 22d. After that they were noisy enough. With all their powerof lungs, however, they not only are not singers; they do not aspire tobe. They belong to the tribe of Jubal. Hearing somebody drumming on tin, I peeped over the wall, and saw one of these pigeon woodpeckershammering an old tin pan lying in the middle of the pasture. Rathersmall sport, I thought, for so large a bird. But that was a matter ofopinion, merely, and evidently the performer himself had no suchscruples. He may even have considered that his ability to play on thisinstrument of the tinsmith's went far to put him on an equality withsome who boast themselves the only tool-using animals. True, the pan wasbattered and rusty; but it was resonant, for all that, and day after dayhe pleased himself with beating _reveille_ upon it. One morning I foundhim sitting in a tree, screaming lustily in response to another bird inan adjacent field. After a while, waxing ardent, he dropped to theground, and, stationing himself before his drum, proceeded to answereach cry of his rival with a vigorous rubadub, varying the programmewith an occasional halloo. How long this would have lasted there is notelling, but he caught sight of me, skulking behind a tree-trunk, andflew back to his lofty perch, where he was still shouting when I cameaway. It was observable that, even in his greatest excitement, he pausedonce in a while to dress his feathers. At first I was inclined to takethis as betraying a want of earnestness; but further reflection led meto a different conclusion. For I imagine that the human lover, no matterhow consuming his passion, is seldom carried so far beyond himself asnot to be able to spare now and then a thought to the parting of hishair and the tie of his cravat. 

Seeing the great delight which this woodpecker took in his precious tinpan, it seemed to me not at all improbable that he had selected hissummer residence with a view to being near it, just as I had chosen minefor its convenience of access to the woods on the one hand, and to thecity on the other. I shall watch with interest to see whether he returnsto the same pasture another year. 

A few field sparrows and chippers showed themselves punctually on the15th; but they were only scouts, and the great body of their followerswere more than a week behind them. I saw no bay-winged buntings untilthe 22d, although it is likely enough they had been here for some daysbefore that. By a lucky chance, my very first bird was a peculiarlyaccomplished musician: he altered his tune at nearly every repetition ofit, sang it sometimes loudly and then softly, and once in a while addedcadenza-like phrases. It lost nothing by being heard on a bright, frostymorning, when the edges of the pools were filmed with ice. 

Only three species of warblers appeared during the month: thepine-creeping warblers, already spoken of, who were trilling on the14th; the yellow-rumped, who came on the 23d; and the yellow red-polls, who followed the next morning. The black-throated greens weremysteriously tardy, and the black-and-white creepers waited for May-day. 

A single brown thrush was leading the chorus on the 29th. "A greatsinger, " my note-book says: "not so altogether faultless as some, butwith a large voice and style, adapted to a great part;" and then isadded, "I thought this morning of Titiens, as I listened to him!"--a bitof impromptu musical criticism, which, under cover of the savingquotation marks may stand for what it is worth. 

Not long after leaving him I ran upon two hermit thrushes (one had beenseen on the 25th), flitting about the woods like ghosts. I whistledsoftly to the first, and he condescended to answer with a low _chuck_, after which I could get nothing more out of him. This demure taciturnityis very curious and characteristic, and to me very engaging. The fellowwill neither skulk nor run, but hops upon some low branch, and looks atyou, --behaving not a little as if you were the specimen and he thestudent! And in such a case, as far as I can see, the bird equally withthe man has a right to his own point of view. 

The hermits were not yet in tune; and without forgetting the fox-coloredsparrows and the linnets, the song sparrows and the bay-wings, thewinter wrens and the brown thrush, I am almost ready to declare that thebest music of the month came from the smallest of all the month's birds, the ruby-crowned kinglets. Their spring season is always short with us, and unhappily it was this year shorter even than usual, my dates beingApril 23d and May 5th. But we must be thankful for a little, when thelittle is of such a quality. Once I descried two of them in the topmostbranches of a clump of tall maples. For a long time they fed in silence;then they began to chase each other about through the trees, in gracefulevolutions (I can imagine nothing more graceful), and soon one, andthen the other, broke out into song. "'Infinite riches in a littleroom, '" my note-book says, again; and truly the song is marvelous, --aprolonged and varied warble, introduced and often broken into, withdelightful effect, by a wrennish chatter. For fluency, smoothness, andease, and especially for purity and sweetness of tone, I have neverheard any bird-song that seemed to me more nearly perfect. If the daintycreature would bear confinement, --on which point I know nothing, --hewould make an ideal parlor songster; for his voice, while round andfull, --in contrast with the goldfinch's, for example, --is yet, even atits loudest, of a wonderful softness and delicacy. Nevertheless, I trustthat nobody will ever cage him. Better far go out-of-doors, and drink inthe exquisite sounds as they drop from the thick of some tall pine, while you catch now and then a glimpse of the tiny author, flittingbusily from branch to branch, warbling at his work; or, as you mayoftener do, look and listen to your heart's content, while he exploressome low cedar or a cluster of roadside birches, too innocent and happyto heed your presence. So you will carry home not the song only, but"the river and sky. "

But if the kinglets were individually the best singers, I must stillconfess that the goldfinches gave the best concert. It was on a sunnyafternoon, --the 27th, --and in a small grove of tall pitch-pines. Howmany birds there were I could form little estimate, but when fifteenflew away for a minute or two the chorus was not perceptibly diminished. All were singing, twittering, and calling together; some of themdirectly over my head, the rest scattered throughout the wood. No onevoice predominated in the least; all sang softly, and with anindescribable tenderness and beauty. Any who do not know how sweet thegoldfinch's note is may get some conception of the effect of such aconcert if they will imagine fifty canaries thus engaged out-of-doors. Ideclared then that I had never heard anything so enchanting, and I amnot certain even now that I was over-enthusiastic. 

A pine-creeping warbler, I remember, broke in upon the choir two orthree times with his loud, precise trill. Foolish bird! His is a prettysong by itself, but set in contrast with music so full of imaginationand poetry, it sounded painfully abrupt and prosaic. 

I discovered the first signs of nest-building on the 13th, whileinvestigating the question of a bird's ambi-dexterity. It happened thatI had just been watching a chickadee, as he picked chip after chip froma dead branch, and held them fast with one claw, while he broke them inpieces with his beak; and walking away, it occurred to me to ask whetheror not he could probably use both feet equally well for such a purpose. Accordingly, seeing another go into an apple-tree, I drew near to takehis testimony on that point. But when I came to look for him he wasnowhere in sight, and pretty soon it appeared that he was at work in theend of an upright stub, which he had evidently but just begun to hollowout, as the tip of his tail still protruded over the edge. Abird-lover's curiosity can always adapt itself to circumstances, and inthis case it was no hardship to postpone the settlement of my newlyraised inquiry, while I observed the pretty labors of my littlearchitect. These proved to be by no means inconsiderable, lasting nearlyor quite three weeks. The birds were still bringing away chips on the30th, when their cavity was about eleven inches deep; but it is to besaid that, as far as I could find out, they never worked in theafternoon or on rainy days. 

Their demeanor toward each other all this time was beautiful to see; noeffusive display of affection, but every appearance of a perfect mutualunderstanding and contentment. And their treatment of me was no lessappropriate and delightful, --a happy combination of freedom anddignified reserve. I took it for an extremely neat compliment tomyself, as well as incontestable evidence of unusual powers ofdiscrimination on their part. 

On my second visit the female sounded a call as I approached the tree, and I looked to see her mate take some notice of it; but he keptstraight on with what he was doing. Not long after she spoke again, however; and now it was amusing to see the fellow all at once standstill on the top of the stub, looking up and around, as much as to say, "What is it, my dear? I see nothing. " Apparently it _was_ nothing, andhe went head first into the hole again. Pretty soon, while he wasinside, I stepped up against the trunk. His mate continued silent, andafter what seemed a long time he came out, flew to an adjacent twig, dropped his load, and returned. This he did over and over (the end ofthe stub was perhaps ten feet above my head), and once he let fall abeakful of chips plump in my face. They were light, and I did not resentthe liberty. 

Two mornings later I found him at his task again, toiling in goodearnest. In and out he went, taking care to bring away the shavings atevery trip, as before, and generally sounding a note or two (keeping thetally, perhaps) before he dropped them. For the fifteen minutes or sothat I remained, his mate was perched in another branch of the sametree, not once shifting her position, and doing nothing whatever exceptto preen her feathers a little. She paid no attention to her husband, nor did he to her. It was a revelation to me that a chickadee couldpossibly sit still so long. 

Eight days after this they were both at work, spelling each other, andthen going off in company for a brief turn at feeding. 

So far they had never manifested the least annoyance at my espionage;but the next morning, as I stood against the tree, one of them seemedslightly disturbed, and flew from twig to twig about my head, looking atme from all directions with his shining black eyes. The reconnoissancewas satisfactory, however; everything went on as before, and severaltimes the chips rattled down upon my stiff Derby hat. The hole wasgetting deep, it was plain; I could hear the little carpenter hammeringat the bottom, and then scrambling up the walls on his way out. One ofthe pair brought a black tidbit from a pine near by, and offered it tothe other as he emerged into daylight. He took it from her bill, said_chit_, --chickadese for _thank you_, --and hastened back into the mine. 

Finally, on the 27th, after watching their operations a while from theground, I swung myself into the tree, and took a seat with them. To mydelight, the work proceeded without interruption. Neither bird made anyoutcry, although one of them hopped round me, just out of reach, withevident curiosity. He must have thought me a queer specimen. When I drewmy overcoat up after me and put it on, they flew away; but within aminute or two they were both back again, working as merrily as ever, andtaking no pains not to litter me with their rubbish. Once the female (Itook it to be she from her smaller size, not from this piece ofshiftlessness) dropped her load without quitting the stub, a thing I hadnot seen either of them do before. Twice one brought the other somethingto eat. At last the male took another turn at investigating mycharacter, and it began to look as if he would end with alighting on myhat. This time, too, I am proud to say, the verdict was favorable. 

Their confidence was not misplaced, and unless all signs failed theyreared a full brood of tits. May their tribe increase! Of birds soinnocent and unobtrusive, so graceful, so merry-hearted, and so musical, the world can never have too many. 

FOOTNOTES:

[22] In the titmouse's cosmological system trees occupy a highlyimportant place, we may be sure; while the purpose of their tall, upright method of growth no doubt receives a very simple and logical(and correspondingly lucid) explanation. 

[23] While this book is passing through the press (April 30th, 1885) Iam privileged with another sight and sound of the woodcock's vespertineperformance, and under peculiarly favorable conditions. In the accountgiven above, sufficient distinction is not made between the clickingnoise, heard while the bird is soaring, and the sounds which signalizehis descent. The former is probably produced by the wings, although Ihave heretofore thought otherwise, while the latter are certainly vocal, and no doubt intended as a song. But they are little if at all louderthan the _click, click_ of the wings, and as far as I have ever beenable to make out are nothing more than a series of quick, breathlesswhistles, with no attempt at either melody or rhythm. 

In the present instance I could see only the start and the "finish, "when the bird several times passed directly by and over me, as I stoodin a cluster of low birches, within two or three rods of his point ofdeparture. His angle of flight was small; quite as if he had been goingand coming from one field to another, in the ordinary course. Once Itimed him, and found that he was on the wing for a few seconds more thana minute. 

[24] Still further to corroborate my "pet theory, " I may say here in afoot-note, what I have said elsewhere with more detail, that before theend of the following month the hermit thrushes, the olive-backedthrushes, and the gray-cheeked thrushes all sang for me in my Melrosewoods. 

Let me explain, also, that when I call the brown creeper a silentmigrant I am not unaware that others beside myself, and more thanmyself, have heard him sing while traveling. Mr. William Brewster, asquoted by Dr. Brewer in the _History of North American Birds_, has beenexceptionally fortunate in this regard. But my expression is correct asfar as the rule is concerned; and the latest word upon the subject whichhas come under my eye is this from Mr. E. P. Bicknell's "Study of theSinging of our Birds, " in _The Auk_ for April, 1884: "Some feeble notes, suggestive of those of _Regulus satrapa_, are this bird's usualutterance during its visit. Its song I have never heard. "

 AN OWL'S HEAD HOLIDAY. 

 Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 

 MILTON. 

 AN OWL'S HEAD HOLIDAY. 

My trip to Lake Memphremagog was by the way, and was not expected todetain me for more than twenty-four hours; but when I went ashore at theOwl's Head Mountain-House, and saw what a lodge in the wilderness itwas, I said to myself, Go to, this is the place; Mount Mansfield willstand for another year at least, and I will waste no more of my preciousfortnight amid dust and cinders. Here were to be enjoyed many of thecomforts of civilization, with something of the wildness and freedom ofa camp. Out of one of the windows of my large, well-furnished room Icould throw a stone into the trackless forest, where, any time I chose, I could make the most of a laborious half-hour in traveling half a mile. The other two opened upon a piazza; whence the lake was to be seenstretching away northward for ten or fifteen miles, with Mount Orfordand his supporting hills in the near background; while I had only towalk the length of the piazza to look round the corner of the house atOwl's Head itself, at whose base we were. The hotel had less than adozen guests and no piano, and there was neither carriage-road norrailway within sight or hearing. Yes, this was the place where I wouldspend the eight days which yet remained to me of idle time. 

Of the eight days five were what are called unpleasant; but theunseasonable cold, which drove the stayers in the house to huddle aboutthe fire, struck the mosquitoes with a torpor which made strolling inthe woods a double luxury; while the rain was chiefly of the showerysort, such as a rubber coat and old clothes render comparativelyharmless. Not that I failed to take a hand with my associates ingrumbling about the weather. Table-talk would speedily come to an end insuch circumstances if people were forbidden to criticise the order ofnature; and it is not for me to boast any peculiar sanctity in thisrespect. But when all was over, it had to be acknowledged that I, forone, had been kept in-doors very little. In fact, if the whole truthwere told, it would probably appear that my fellow boarders, seeing mypersistency in disregarding the inclemency of the elements, soon came tolook upon me as decidedly odd, though perhaps not absolutely demented. At any rate, I was rather glad than otherwise to think so. In thoselong days there must often have been a dearth of topics for profitableconversation, no matter how outrageous the weather, and it was apleasure to believe that this little idiosyncracy of mine might answerto fill here and there a gap. For what generous person does not rejoiceto feel that even in his absence he may be doing something for thecomfort and well-being of his brothers and sisters? As Seneca said, "Manis born for mutual assistance. "

According to Osgood's "New England, " the summit of Owl's Head is 2, 743feet above the level of the lake, and the path to it is a mile and ahalf and thirty rods in length. It may seem niggardly not to throw offthe last petty fraction; and indeed we might well enough let it pass ifit were at the beginning of the route, --if the path, that is, werethirty rods and a mile and a half long. But this, it will be observed, is not the case; and it is a fact perfectly well attested, thoughperhaps not yet scientifically accounted for (many things are known tobe true which for the present cannot be mathematically demonstrated), that near the top of a mountain thirty rods are equivalent to a gooddeal more than four hundred and ninety-five feet. Let the guide-book'sspecification stand, therefore, in all its surveyor-like exactness. After making the climb four times in the course of eight days, I am notdisposed to abate so much as a jot from the official figures. Ratherthan do that I would pin my faith to an unprofessional-lookingsign-board in the rear of the hotel, on which the legend runs, "Summitof Owl's Head 2-1/4 miles. " For aught I know, indeed (in such a world asthis, uncertainty is a principal mark of intelligence), --for aught Iknow, both measurements may be correct; which fact, if once it wereestablished, would easily and naturally explain how it came to pass thatI myself found the distance so much greater on some days than on others;although, for that matter, which of the two would be actually longer, apath which should rise 2, 743 feet in a mile and a half, or one thatshould cover two miles and a quarter in reaching the same elevation, isa question to which different pedestrians would likely enough returncontradictory answers. [25]

Yet let me not be thought to magnify so small a feat as the ascent ofOwl's Head, a mountain which the ladies of the Appalachian Club may bepresumed to look upon as hardly better than a hillock. The guide-book's"thirty rods" have betrayed me into saying more than I intended. Itwould have been enough had I mentioned that the way is in many placessteep, while at the time of my visit the constant rains kept it in amuddy, treacherous condition. I remember still the undignified anduncomfortable celerity with which, on one occasion, I took my seat inwhat was little better than the rocky bed of a brook, such a place as Ishould by no means have selected for the purpose had I been granted evena single moment for deliberation. 

"Hills draw like heaven" (as applied to some of us, it may be fearedthat this is rather an under-statement), and it could not have been morethan fifteen minutes after I landed from the Lady of the Lake--the "OldLady, " as one of the fishermen irreverently called her--before I was onmy way to the summit. 

I was delighted then, as I was afterwards, whenever I entered the woods, with the extraordinary profusion and variety of the ferns. Among therest, and one of the most abundant, was the beautiful _Cystopterisbulbifera_; its long, narrow, pale green, delicately cut, Dicksonia-likefronds bending toward the ground at the tip, as if about to take rootfor a new start, in the walking-fern's manner. Some of these could nothave been less than four feet in length (including the stipe), and Ipicked one which measured about two feet and a half, and boretwenty-five bulblets underneath. Half a mile from the start, orthereabouts, the path skirts what I should call the fernery; a circularspace, perhaps one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, set in the midstof the primeval forest, but itself containing no tree or shrub of anysort, --nothing but one dense mass of ferns. In the centre was a patch ofthe sensitive fern (Onoclea sensibilis), while around this, and fillingnearly the entire circle, was a magnificent thicket of the ostrich fern(_Onoclea struthiopteris_), with _sensibilis_ growing hidden andscattered underneath. About the edge were various other species, notably_Aspidium Goldianum_, which I here found for the first time, and_Aspidium aculeatum_, var. _Braunii_. All in all, it was a curious andpretty sight, --this tiny tarn filled with ferns instead of water, --oneworth going a good distance to see, and sure to attract the notice ofthe least observant traveler. [26]

Ferns are mostly of a gregarious habit. Here at Owl's Head, forinstance, might be seen in one place a rock thickly matted with thecommon polypody; in another a patch of the maiden-hair; in still anothera plenty of the Christmas fern, or a smaller group of one of the beechferns (_Phegopteris polypodioides_ or _Phegopteris Dryopteris_). Ourgrape-ferns or moonworts, on the other hand, covet more elbow-room. Thelargest species (_Botrychium Virginianum_), although never growing inanything like a bed or tuft, was nevertheless common throughout thewoods; you could gather a handful almost anywhere; but I found only oneplant of _Botrychium lanceolatum_, and only two of _Botrychiummatricariæfolium_ (and these a long distance apart), even though, onaccount of their rarity and because I had never before seen the latter, I spent considerable time, first and last, in hunting for them. What canthese diminutive hermits have ever done or suffered, that they shouldchoose thus to live and die, each by itself, in the vast solitude of amountain forest?

It was already the middle of July, so that I was too late for the betterpart of the wood flowers. The oxalis (_Oxalis acetosella_), orwood-sorrel was in bloom, however, carpeting the ground in many places. I plucked a blossom now and then to admire the loveliness of the whitecup, with its fine purple lines and golden spots. If each had beenpainted on purpose for a queen, they could not have been more daintilytouched. Yet here they were, opening by the thousand, with no human eyeto look upon them. Quite as common (Wordsworth's expression, "Groundflowers in flocks, " would have suited either) was the alpine enchanter'snight-shade (_Circæa alpina_); a most frail and delicate thing, thoughit has little other beauty. Who would ever mistrust, to see it, that itwould prove to be connected in any way with the flaunting willow-herb, or fire-weed? But such incongruities are not confined to the "vegetablekingdom. " The wood-nettle was growing everywhere; a juicy-looking butcoarse weed, resembling our common roadside nettles only in itsblossoms. The cattle had found out what I never should havesurmised, --having had a taste of its sting, --that it is good for food;there were great patches of it, as likewise of the pale touch-me-not(_Impatiens pallida_), which had been browsed over by them. It seemed tome that some of the ferns, the hay-scented for example, ought to havesuited them better; but they passed these all by, as far as I coulddetect. About the edges of the woods, and in favorable positions well upthe mountain-side, the flowering raspberry was flourishing; making nodisplay of itself, but offering to any who should choose to turn asideand look at them a few blossoms such as, for beauty and fragrance, areworthy to be, as they really are, cousin to the rose. On one of myrambles I came upon some plants of a strangely slim and prim aspect;nothing but a straight, erect, military-looking, needle-like stalk, bearing a spike of pods at the top, and clasped at the middle by twosmall stemless leaves. By some occult means (perhaps their growing with_Tiarella_ had something to do with the matter) I felt at once thatthese must be the mitrewort (_Mitella diphylla_). My prophetic soul wasnot always thus explicit and infallible, however. Other novelties I saw, about which I could make no such happy impromptu guess. And here themanual afforded little assistance; for it has not yet been foundpracticable to "analyze, " and so to identify plants simply by the stemand foliage, --although I remember to have been told, to be sure, of ayoung lady who professed that at her college the instruction in botanywas so thorough that it was possible for the student to name any plantin the world from seeing only a single leaf! But her college was notHarvard, and Professor Gray has probably never so much as heard of suchan admirable method. 

On the whole, it is good to have the curiosity piqued with here andthere a vegetable stranger, --its name and even its family relationship amystery. The leaf is nothing extraordinary, perhaps, yet who knows butthat the bloom may be of the rarest beauty? Or the leaf is of a graciousshape and texture, but how shall we tell whether the flower willcorrespond with it? No; we must do with them as with chanceacquaintances of our own kind. The man looks every inch a gentleman; hisface alone seems a sufficient guaranty of good-breeding andintelligence; but none the less, --and not forgetting that charitythinketh no evil, --we shall do well to wait till we have heard him talkand seen how he will behave, before we put a final label upon him. Waitfor the blossom and the fruit (the blossom _is_ the fruit in its firststage); for the old rule is still the true one, --alike in botany and inmorals, --"By their fruits ye shall know them. "

What a world within a world the forest is! Under the trees were theshrubs, --knee-high rock-maples making the ground verdant for acrestogether, or dwarf thickets of yew, now bearing green acorn-likeberries; while below these was a variegated carpet, oxalis and theflower of Linnæus, ferns and club-mosses (the glossy _Lycopodiumlucidulum_ was especially plentiful), to say nothing of the true mossesand the lichens. 

Of all these things I should have seen more, no doubt, had not my headbeen so much of the time in the tree-tops. For yonder were the birds;and how could I be expected to notice what lay at my feet, while I waswatching intently for a glimpse of the warbler that flitted from twig totwig amid the foliage of some beech or maple, the very lowest branch ofwhich, likely enough, was fifty or sixty feet above the ground. It wasin this way (so I choose to believe, at any rate) that I walked four orfive times directly over the acute-leaved hepatica before I finallydiscovered it, notwithstanding it was one of the plants for which I hadall the while been on the lookout. 

I said that the birds were in the tree-tops; but of course there wereexceptions. Here and there was a thrush, feeding on the ground; or anoven-bird might be seen picking his devious way through the underwoods, in paths of his own, and with a gait of studied and "sanctimonious"originality. In the list of the lowly must be put the winter wrens also;one need never look skyward for _them_. For a minute or two during myfirst ascent of Owl's Head I had lively hopes of finding one of theirnests. Two or three of the birds were scolding earnestly right about myfeet, as it were, and their cries redoubled, or so I imagined, when Iapproached a certain large, moss-grown stump. This I looked overcarefully on all sides, putting my fingers into every possible hole andcrevice, till it became evident that nothing was to be gained by furthersearch. (What a long chapter we could write, any of us who areornithologists, about the nests we did not find!) It dawned upon me alittle later that I had been fooled; that it was not the nest which hadbeen in question at all. That, wherever it was, had been forsaken somedays before; and the birds were parents and young, the formerdistracting my attention by their outcries, while at the same momentthey were ordering the youngsters to make off as quickly as possible, lest yonder hungry fiend should catch and devour them. If wrens everlaugh, this pair must have done so that evening, as they recalled toeach other my eager fumbling of that innocent old stump. This opinion asto the meaning of their conduct was confirmed in the course of a fewdays, when I came upon another similar group. These were at first quiteunaware of my presence; and a very pretty family picture they made, intheir snuggery of overthrown trees, the father breaking out into a songonce in a while, or helping his mate to feed the young, who were alreadyable to pick up a good part of their own living. Before long, however, one of the pair caught sight of the intruder, and then all at once thescene changed. The old birds chattered and scolded, bobbing up and downin their own ridiculous manner (although, considered by itself, thisgesture is perhaps no more laughable than some which other orators areapplauded for making), and soon the place was silent and to allappearance deserted. 

Notwithstanding Owl's Head is in Canada, the birds, as I soon found, were not such as characterize the "Canadian Fauna. " Olive-backedthrushes, black-poll warblers, crossbills, pine linnets, and Canadajays, all of which I had myself seen in the White Mountains, were noneof them here; but instead, to my surprise, were wood thrushes, scarlettanagers, and wood pewees, --the two latter species in comparativeabundance. My first wood thrush was seen for a moment only, and althoughhe had given me a plain sight of his back, I concluded that my eyes mustonce more have played me false. But within a day or two, when half-waydown the mountain path, I heard the well-known strain ringing throughthe woods. It was unquestionably that, and nothing else, for I sat downupon a convenient log and listened for ten minutes or more, while thesinger ran through all those inimitable variations which infalliblydistinguish the wood thrush's song from every other. And afterward, tomake assurance doubly sure, I again saw the bird in the best possibleposition, and at short range. On looking into the subject, indeed, Ilearned that his being here was nothing wonderful; since, while it istrue, as far as the sea-coast is concerned, that he seldom venturesnorth of Massachusetts, it is none the less down in the books that hedoes pass the summer in Lower Canada, reaching it, probably, by way ofthe valley of the St. Lawrence. 

A few robins were about the hotel, and I saw a single veery in thewoods, but the only members of the thrush family that were present inlarge numbers were the hermits. These sang everywhere and at all hours. On the summit, even at mid-day, I was invariably serenaded by them. Infact they seemed more abundant there than anywhere else; but they wereoften to be heard by the lake-side, and in our apple orchard, and onceat least one of them sang at some length from a birch-tree within a fewfeet of the piazza, between it and the bowling alley. As far as I haveever been able to discover, the hermit, for all his name and consequentreputation, is less timorous and more approachable than any other NewEngland representative of his "sub-genus. "

On this trip I settled once more a question which I had already settledseveral times, --the question, namely, whether the wood thrush or thehermit is the better singer. This time my decision was in favor of theformer. How the case would have turned had the conditions been reversed, had there been a hundred of the wood thrushes for one of the hermits, ofcourse I cannot tell. So true is a certain old Latin proverb, that inmatters of this sort it is impossible for a man to agree even withhimself for any long time together. 

The conspicuous birds, noticed by everybody, were a family of hawks. Thevisitor might have no appreciation of music; he might go up the mountainand down again without minding the thrushes or the wrens, --for there isnothing about the human ear more wonderful than its ability not to hear;but these hawks passed a good part of every day in screaming, and werebound to be attended to by all but the stone-deaf. A native of theregion pointed out a ledge, on which, according to his account, they hadmade their nest for more than thirty years. "We call them mountainhawks, " he said, in answer to an inquiry. The keepers of the hotel, naturally enough, called them eagles; while a young Canadian, who oneday overtook me as I neared the summit, and spent an hour there in mycompany, pronounced them fish-hawks. I asked him, carelessly, how hecould be sure of that, and he replied, after a little hesitation, "Why, they are all the time over the lake; and besides, they sometimes diveinto the water and come up with a fish. " The last item would have beengood evidence, no doubt. My difficulty was that I had never seen themnear the lake, and what was more conclusive, their heads weredark-colored, if not really black. A few minutes after this conversationI happened to have my glass upon one of them as he approached themountain at some distance below us, when my comrade asked, "Looking atthat bird?" "Yes, " I answered; on which he continued, in amatter-of-fact tone, "That's a crow;" plainly thinking that, as Iappeared to be slightly inquisitive about such matters, it would be akindness to tell me a thing or two. I made bold to intimate that thebird had a barred tail, and must, I thought, be one of the hawks. He didnot dispute the point; and, in truth, he was a modest and well-manneredyoung gentleman. I liked him in that he knew both how to converse andhow to be silent; without which latter qualification, indeed, not evenan angel would be a desirable mountain-top companion. He gave meinformation about the surrounding country such as I was very glad toget; and in the case of the hawks my advantage over him, if any, wasmainly in this, --that my lack of knowledge partook somewhat more fullythan his of the nature of Lord Bacon's "learned ignorance, that knowsitself. "

Whatever the birds may have been, "mountain hawks, " "fish-hawks, " orduck-hawks, their aerial evolutions, as seen from the summit, werebeautiful beyond description. One day in particular three of them wereperforming together. For a time they chased each other this way and thatat lightning speed, screaming wildly, though whether in sport or anger Icould not determine. Then they floated majestically, high above us, while now and then one would set his wings and shoot down, down, tillthe precipitous side of the mountain hid him from view; only to reappeara minute afterward, soaring again, with no apparent effort, to hisformer height. 

One of these noisy fellows served me an excellent turn. It was the lastday of my visit, and I had just taken my farewell look at the enchantingprospect from the summit, when I heard the lisp of a brown creeper. Thiswas the first of his kind that I had seen here, and I stoppedimmediately to watch him, in hopes he would sing. Creeper-like he triedone tree after another in quick succession, till at last, while he wasexploring a dead spruce which had toppled half-way to the ground, a hawkscreamed loudly overhead. Instantly the little creature flattenedhimself against the trunk, spreading his wings to their very utmost andducking his head until, though I had been all the while eying hismotions through a glass at the distance of only a few rods, it wasalmost impossible to believe that yonder tiny brown fleck upon the barkwas really a bird and not a lichen. He remained in this posture forperhaps a minute, only putting up his head two or three times to peercautiously round. Unless I misjudged him, he did not discriminatebetween the screech of the hawk and the _ank, ank_ of a nuthatch, whichfollowed it; and this, with an indefinable something in his manner, mademe suspect him of being a young bird. Young or old, however, he hadlearned one lesson well, at all events, one which I hoped would keep himout of the talons of his enemies for long days to come. 

It was pleasant to see how cheerfully he resumed work as soon as thealarm was over. _This_ danger was escaped, at any rate; and why shouldhe make himself miserable with worrying about the next? He had the truephilosophy. We who pity the birds for their numberless perils areourselves in no better case. Consumption, fevers, accidents, enemies ofevery name are continually lying in wait for our destruction. We walksurrounded with them; seeing them not, to be sure, but knowing, all thesame, that they are there; yet feeling, too, like the birds, that insome way or other we shall elude them a while longer, and holding atsecond hand the truth which these humble creatures practice uponinstinctively, --"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. "

Not far from this spot, on a previous occasion, I had very unexpectedlycome face to face with another of the creeper's blood-thirstypersecutors. It happened that a warbler was singing in a lofty birch, and being in doubt about the song (which was a little like theNashville's, but longer in each of its two parts and ending with a lessconfused flourish), I was of course very desirous to see the singer. Butto catch sight of a small bird amid thick foliage, fifty feet or moreabove you, is not an easy matter, as I believe I have already onceremarked. So when I grew weary of the attempt, I bethought myself totry the efficacy of an old device, well known to all collectors, andproceeded to imitate, as well as I could, the cries of some bird indistress. My warbler was imperturbable. He had no nest or young to beanxious about, and kept on singing. But pretty soon I was apprised ofsomething in the air, coming toward me, and looking up, beheld a largeowl who appeared to be dropping straight upon my head. He saw me in timeto avoid such a catastrophe, however, and, describing a graceful curve, alighted on a low branch near by, and stared at me as only an owl can. Then away he went, while at the same instant a jay dashed into thethicket and out again, shouting derisively, "I saw you! I saw you!"Evidently the trick was a good one, and moderately well played; infurther confirmation of which the owl hooted twice in response to somepeculiarly happy efforts on my part, and then actually came back againfor another look. This proved sufficient, and he quickly disappeared;retiring to his leafy covert or hollow tree, to meditate, no doubt, onthe strange creature whose unseasonable noises had disturbed hisafternoon slumbers. Likely enough he could not readily fall asleep againfor wondering how I could possibly find my way through the woods in thedarkness of daylight. So difficult is it, we may suppose, for even anowl to put himself in another's place and see with another's eyes. 

This little episode over, I turned again to the birch-tree, andfortunately the warbler's throat was of too fiery a color to remain longconcealed; though it was at once a pleasure and an annoyance to findmyself still unacquainted with at least one song out of theBlackburnian's repertory. In times past I had carefully attended to hismusic, and within only a few days, in the White Mountain Notch, I hadtaken note of two of its variations; but here was still another, whichneither began with _zillup, zillup_, nor ended with _zip, zip_, --noteswhich I had come to look upon as the Blackburnian's sign-vocal. Yet itmust have been my fault, not his, that I failed to recognize him; forevery bird's voice has something characteristic about it, just as everyhuman voice has tones and inflections which those who are sufficientlyfamiliar with its owner will infallibly detect. The ear feels them, although words cannot describe them. Articulate speech is but a moderninvention, as it were, in comparison with the five senses; and sincepractice makes perfect, it is natural enough that every one of the fiveshould easily, and as a matter of course, perceive shades of differenceso slight that language, in its present rudimentary state, cannot beginto take account of them. 

The other warblers at Owl's Head, as far as they came under my notice, were the black-and-white creeper, the blue yellow-backed warbler, theNashville, the black-throated green, the black-throated blue, theyellow-rumped, the chestnut-sided, the oven-bird (already spoken of), the small-billed water thrush, the Maryland yellow-throat, the Canadianflycatcher, and the redstart. 

The water thrush (I saw only one individual) was by the lake-side, andwithin a rod or two of the bowling alley. What a strange, compositecreature he is! thrush, warbler, and sandpiper all in one; with such abare-footed, bare-legged appearance, too, as if he must always be readyto wade; and such a Saint Vitus's dance! His must be a curious history. In particular, I should like to know the origin of his teetering habit, which seems to put him among the beach birds. Can it be that suchfrequenters of shallow water are rendered less conspicuous by thiswave-like, up-and-down motion, and have actually adopted it as a meansof defense, just as they and many more have taken on a color harmonizingwith that of their ordinary surroundings?[27]

The black-throated blue warblers were common, and like most of theirtribe were waiting upon offspring just out of the nest. I watched one ashe offered his charge a rather large insect. The awkward fledgeling letit fall three times; and still the parent picked it up again, onlychirping mildly, as if to say, "Come, come, my beauty, don't be quite sobungling. " But even in the midst of their family cares, they still foundleisure for music; and as they and the black-throated greens were oftensinging together, I had excellent opportunities to compare the songs ofthe two species. The voices, while both very peculiar, are at the sametime so nearly alike that it was impossible for me on hearing the firstnote of either strain to tell whose it was. With the voice thesimilarity ends, however; for the organ does not make the singer, andwhile the blue seldom attempts more than a harsh, monotonous _kree, kree, kree_, the green possesses the true lyrical gift, so that few ofour birds have a more engaging song than his simple _Trees, trees, murmuring trees_, or if you choose to understand it so, _Sleep, sleep, pretty one, sleep_. [28]

I saw little of the blue yellow-backed warbler, but whenever I took themountain path I was certain to hear his whimsical upward-running song, broken off at the end with a smart snap. He seemed to have chosen theneighborhood of the fernery for his peculiar haunt, a piece of goodtaste quite in accord with his general character. Nothing could well bemore beautiful than this bird's plumage; and his nest, which is"globular, with an entrance on one side, " is described as a wonder ofelegance; while in grace of movement not even the titmouse can surpasshim. Strange that such an exquisite should have so fantastic a song. 

I have spoken of the rainy weather. There were times when the piazza wasas far out-of-doors as it was expedient to venture. But even then I wasnot without excellent feathered society. Red-eyed vireos (one pair hadtheir nest within twenty feet of the hotel), chippers, song sparrows, snow-birds, robins, waxwings, and phoebes were to be seen almost anymoment, while the hermit thrushes, as I have before mentioned, paid usoccasional visits. The most familiar of our door-yard friends, however, to my surprise, were the yellow-rumped warblers. Till now I had neverfound them at home except in the forests of the White Mountains; buthere they were, playing the _rôle_ which in Massachusetts we areaccustomed to see taken by the summer yellow-birds, and by no others ofthe family. At first, knowing that this species was said to build in lowevergreens, I looked suspiciously at some small spruces which lined thewalk to the pier; but after a while I happened to see one of the birdsflying into a rock-maple with something in his bill, and following himwith my eye, beheld him alight on the edge of his nest. "About four feetfrom the ground, " the book said (the latest book, too); but this lawlesspair had chosen a position which could hardly be less than ten timesthat height, --considerably higher, at all events, than the eaves of thethree-story house. It was out of reach in the small topmost branches, but I watched its owners at my leisure, as the maple was not more thantwo rods from my window. At this time the nestlings were nearly readyto fly, and in the course of a day or two I saw one of them sitting in atree in the midst of a drenching rain. On my offering to lay hold of himhe dropped into the grass, and when I picked him up both parents beganto fly about me excitedly, with loud outcries. The male, especially, went nearly frantic, entering the bowling alley where I happened to be, and alighting on the floor; then, taking to the bole of a tree, hefluttered helplessly upon it, spreading his wings and tail, seeming tosay as plainly as words could have done, "Look, you monster! here'sanother young bird that can't fly; why don't you come and catch him?"The acting was admirable, --all save the spreading of the tail; that wasa false note, for the youngster in my hand had no tail feathers at all. I put the fellow upon a tree, whence he quickly flew to the ground (hecould fly down but not up), and soon both parents were again supplyinghim with food. The poor thing had not eaten a morsel for possibly tenminutes, a very long fast for a bird of his age. I hoped he would fallinto the hands of no worse enemy than myself, but the chances seemedagainst him. The first few days after quitting the nest must be full ofperils for such helpless innocents. 

For the credit of my own sex I was pleased to notice that it was thefather-bird who manifested the deepest concern and the readiest wit, notto say the greatest courage; but I am obliged in candor to acknowledgethat this feature of the case surprised me not a little. 

In what language shall I speak of the song of these familiar myrtlewarblers, so that my praise may correspond in some degree with thegracious and beautiful simplicity of the strain itself? For music to beheard constantly, right under one's window, it could scarcely beimproved; sweet, brief, and remarkably unobtrusive, without sharpness oremphasis; a trill not altogether unlike the pine-creeping warbler's, butless matter-of-fact and business-like. I used to listen to it before Irose in the morning, and it was to be heard at intervals all day long. Occasionally it was given in an absent-minded, meditative way, in a kindof half-voice, as if the happy creature had no thought of what he wasdoing. Then it was at its best, but one needed to be near the singer. 

In a clearing back of the hotel, but surrounded by the forest, werealways a goodly company of birds, among the rest a family ofyellow-bellied woodpeckers; and in a second similar place werewhite-throated sparrows, Maryland yellow-throats, and chestnut-sidedwarblers, the last two feeding their young. Immature warblers are apuzzling set. The birds themselves have no difficulty, I suppose; butseeing young and old together, and noting how unlike they are, I havebefore now been reminded of Launcelot Gobbo's saying, "It is a wisefather that knows his own child. "

While traversing the woods between these two clearings I saw, as Ithought, a chimney swift fly out of the top of a tree which had beenbroken off at a height of twenty-five or thirty feet. I stopped, andpretty soon the thing was repeated; but even then I was not quick enoughto be certain whether the bird really came from the stump or only out ofthe forest behind it. Accordingly, after sounding the trunk to make sureit was hollow, I sat down in a clump of raspberry bushes, where I shouldbe sufficiently concealed, and awaited further developments. I waitedand waited, while the mosquitoes, seeing how sheltered I was from thebreeze, gathered about my head in swarms. A winter wren at my elbowstruck up to sing, going over and over with his exquisite tune; and ascarlet tanager, also, not far off, did what he could--which wassomewhat less than the wren's--to relieve the tedium of my situation. Finally, when my patience was well-nigh exhausted, --for the afternoonwas wearing away and I had some distance to walk, --a swift flew past mefrom behind, and, with none of that poising over the entrance such as iscommonly seen when a swift goes down a chimney, went straight into thetrunk. In half a minute or less he reappeared without a sound, and wasout of sight in a second. Then I picked up my rubber coat, and with ablessing on the wren and the tanager, and a malediction on themosquitoes (so unjust does self-interest make us), started homeward. 

Conservatives and radicals! Even the swifts, it seems, are divided intothese two classes. "Hollow trees were good enough for our fathers; whoare we that we should assume to know more than all the generationsbefore us? To change is not of necessity to make progress. Let those whowill, take up with smoky chimneys; for our part we prefer the old way. "

Thus far the conservatives; but now comes the party of modern ideas. "All that is very well, " say they. "Our ancestors were worthy folkenough; they did the best they could in their time. But the world moves, and wise birds will move with it. Why should we make a fetish out ofsome dead forefather's example? _We_ are alive now. To refuse to takeadvantage of increased light and improved conditions may look likefilial piety in the eyes of some: to us such conduct appears nothingbetter than a distrust of the Divine Providence, a subtle form ofatheism. What are chimneys for, pray? And as for soot and smoke, we weremade to live in them. Otherwise, let some of our opponents be kindenough to explain why we were created with black feathers. "

So, in brief, the discussion runs; with the usual result, no doubt, thateach side convinces itself. 

We may assume, however, that these old-school and new-school swifts donot carry their disagreement so far as actually to refuse to holdfellowship with one another. Conscience is but imperfectly developed inbirds, as yet, and they can hardly feel each other's sins and errors ofbelief (if indeed these things be two, and not one) quite so keenly asmen are accustomed to do. 

After all, it is something to be grateful for, this diversity of habit. We could not spare the swifts from our villages, and it would be too badto lose them out of the Northern forests. May they live and thrive, bothparties of them. 

I am glad, also, for the obscurity which attends their annual coming andgoing. Whether they hibernate or migrate, the secret is their own; andfor my part, I wish them the wit to keep it. In this age, when the worldis in such danger of becoming omniscient before the time, it is good tohave here and there a mystery in reserve. Though it be only a littleone, we may well cherish it as a treasure. 

FOOTNOTES:

[25] The guide-book allows two hours for the mile and a half on Owl'sHead, while it gives only an hour and a half for the three miles upMount Clinton--from the Crawford House. 

[26] To bear out what has been said in the text concerning the abundanceof ferns at Owl's Head, I subjoin a list of the species observed;premising that the first interest of my trip was not botanical, and thatI explored but a very small section of the woods:--

 _Polypodium vulgare. _ _Adiantum pedatum. _ _Pteris aquilina. _ _Asplenium Trichomanes. _ _A. Thelypteroides. _ _A. Filix-foemina. _ _Phegopteris polypodioides. _ _P. Dryopteris. _ _Aspidium marginale. _ _A. Spinulosum_, variety undetermined. _A. Spinulosum_, var. _dilatatum_. _A. Goldianum. _ _A. Acrostichoides. _ _A. Aculeatum_, var. _Braunii_. _Cystopteris bulbifera. _ _C. Fragilis. _ _Onoclea struthiopteris. _ _O. Sensibilis. _ _Woodsia Ilvensis. _ _Dicksonia punctilobula. _ _Osmunda regalis. _ _O. Claytoniana. _ _O. Cinnamomea. _ _Botrychium lanceolatum. _ _B. Matricariæfolium. _ _B. Ternatum. _ _B. Virginianum. _

[27] This bird (_Siurus nævius_) is remarkable for the promptness withwhich he sets out on his autumnal journey, appearing in EasternMassachusetts early in August. Last year (1884) one was in my door-yardon the morning of the 7th. I heard his loud chip, and looking out of thewindow, saw him first on the ground and then in an ash-tree near a crowdof house sparrows. The latter were scolding at him with their usualcordiality, while he, on his part, seemed under some kind offascination, returning again and again to walk as closely as he daredabout the blustering crew. His curiosity was laughable. Evidently hethought, considering what an ado the sparrows were making, thatsomething serious must be going on, something worth any bird's while toturn aside for a moment to look into. The innocent recluse! if he hadlived where I do he would have grown used to such "windy congresses. "

[28] After all that has been said about the "pathetic fallacy, " socalled, it remains true that Nature speaks to us according to our mood. With all her "various language" she "cannot talk and find ears too. " Andso it happens that some, listening to the black-throated green warbler, have brought back a report of "_Cheese, cheese, a little more cheese_. "Prosaic and hungry souls! This voice out of the pine-trees was not forthem. They have caught the rhythm but missed the poetry. 

 A MONTH'S MUSIC

 And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. 

 COLERIDGE. 

 A MONTH'S MUSIC. 

The morning of May-day was bright and spring-like, and should have beensignalized, it seemed to me, by the advent of a goodly number of birds;but the only new-comer to be found was a single black-and-white creeper. Glad as I was to see this lowly acquaintance back again after his sevenmonths' absence, and natural as he looked on the edge of Warbler Swamp, bobbing along the branches in his own unique, end-for-end fashion, therewas no resisting a sensation of disappointment. Why could not the woodthrush have been punctual? _He_ would have made the woods ring with anode worthy of the festival. Possibly the hermits--who had been with usfor several days in silence--divined my thoughts. At all events, one ofthem presently broke into a song--the first _Hylocichla_ note of theyear. Never was voice more beautiful. Like the poet's dream, it "left myafter-morn content. "

It is too much to be expected that the wood thrush should hold himselfbound to appear at a given point on a fixed date. How can we know themultitude of reasons, any one of which may detain him for twenty-fourhours, or even for a week? It is enough for us to be assured, ingeneral, that the first ten days of the month will bring this master ofthe choir. The present season he arrived on the 6th--the veery with him;last year he was absent until the 8th; while on the two years precedinghe assisted at the observance of May-day. 

All in all, I must esteem this thrush our greatest singer; although thehermit might dispute the palm, perhaps, but that he is merely asemi-annual visitor in most parts of Massachusetts. If perfection beheld to consist in the absence of flaw, the hermit's is unquestionablythe more nearly perfect song of the two. Whatever he attempts is donebeyond criticism; but his range and variety are far less than hisrival's, and, for my part, I can forgive the latter if now and then hereaches after a note lying a little beyond his best voice, and withal istoo commonly wanting in that absolute simplicity and ease which lendsuch an ineffable charm to the performance of the hermit and the veery. Shakespeare is not a faultless poet, but in the existing state of publicopinion it will hardly do to set Gray above him. 

In the course of the month about which I am now writing (May, 1884) Iwas favored with thrush music to a quite unwonted degree. With theexception of the varied thrush (a New-Englander by accident only) andthe mocking-bird, there was not one of our Massachusetts representativesof the family who did not put me in his debt. The robin, the brownthrush, the cat-bird, the wood thrush, the veery, and even the hermit(what a magnificent sextette!)--so many I counted upon hearing, as amatter of course; but when to these were added the Arctic thrushes--theolive-backed and the gray-cheeked--I gladly confessed surprise. I hadnever heard either species before, south of the White Mountains; nor, asfar as I then knew, had anybody else been more fortunate than myself. Yet the birds themselves were seemingly unaware of doing anything new ornoteworthy. This was especially the case with the olive-backs; and afterlistening to them for three days in succession I began to suspect thatthey _were_ doing nothing new, --that they had sung every spring in thesame manner, only, in the midst of the grand May medley, my ears hadsomehow failed to take account of their contribution. Their fourth (andfarewell) appearance was on the 23d, when they sang both morning andevening. At that time they were in a bit of swamp, among some tallbirches, and as I caught the familiar and characteristic notes--a briefascending spiral--I was almost ready to believe myself in some primevalNew Hampshire forest; an illusion not a little aided by the frequentlisping of black-poll warblers, who chanced just then to be remarkablyabundant. 

It was on the same day, and within a short distance of the same spot, that the Alice thrushes, or gray-cheeks, were in song. Their music wasrepeated a good many times, but unhappily it ceased whenever I tried toget near the birds. Then, as always, it put me in mind of the veery'seffort, notwithstanding a certain part of the strain was quite out ofthe veery's manner, and the whole was pitched in decidedly too high akey. It seemed, also, as if what I heard could not be the complete song;but I had been troubled with the same feeling on previous occasions, anda friend whose opportunities have been better than mine reports asimiliar experience; so that it is perhaps not uncharitable to concludethat the song, even at its best, is more or less broken and amorphous. 

In their Northern homes these gray-cheeks are excessively wild andunapproachable; but while traveling they are little if at all worse thantheir congeners in this respect, --taking short flights when disturbed, and often doing nothing more than to hop upon some low perch toreconnoitre the intruder. 

At the risk of being thought to reflect upon the acuteness of morecompetent observers, I am free to express my hope of hearing the musicof both these noble visitors again another season. For it is noticeablehow common such things tend to become when once they are discovered. Anenthusiastic botanical collector told me that for years he searched farand near for the adder's-tongue fern, till one day he stumbled upon itin a place over which he had long been in the habit of passing. Markingthe peculiarities of the spot he straightway wrote to a kindred spirit, whom he knew to have been engaged in the same hunt, suggesting that hewould probably find the coveted plants in a particular section of themeadow back of his own house (in Concord); and sure enough, the nextday's mail brought an envelope from his friend, inclosing specimens of_Ophioglossum vulgatum_, with the laconic but sufficient message, _Eureka!_ There are few naturalists, I suspect, who could not narrateadventures of a like sort. 

One such befell me during this same month, in connection with the woodwagtail, or golden-crowned thrush. Not many birds are more abundant thanhe in my neighborhood, and I fancied myself pretty well acquainted withhis habits and manners. Above all, I had paid attention to hiscelebrated love-song, listening to it almost daily for several summers. Thus far it had invariably been given out in the afternoon, and on thewing. To my mind, indeed, this was by far its most interesting feature(for in itself the song is by no means of surpassing beauty), and I hadeven been careful to record the earliest hour at which I had heardit--three o'clock P. M. But on the 6th of May aforesaid I detected abird practicing this very tune in the morning, and from a perch! I setthe fact down without hesitation as a wonder, --a purely exceptionaloccurrence, the repetition of which was not to be looked for. Anythingmight happen once. Only four days afterwards, however, at half-past sixin the morning, I had stooped to gather some peculiarly bright-coloredanemones (I can see the patch of rosy blossoms at this moment, althoughI am writing by a blazing fire while the snow is falling without), whenmy ear caught the same song again; and keeping my position, I soondescried the fellow stepping through the grass within ten yards of me, caroling as he walked. The hurried warble, with the common _Weechee_, _weechee_, _weechee_ interjected in the midst, was reiterated perhaps adozen times, --the full evening strain, but in a rather subdued tone. Hewas under no excitement, and appeared to be entirely by himself; infact, when he had made about half the circuit round me he flew into alow bush and proceeded to dress his feathers listlessly. Probably what Ihad overheard was nothing more than a rehearsal. Within a week or two hewould need to do his very best in winning the fair one of his choice, and for that supreme moment he had already put himself in training. Thewise-hearted and obliging little beau! I must have been the veriestchurl not to wish him his pick of all the feminine wagtails in the wood. As for the pink anemones, they had done me a double kindness, inrequital for which I could only carry them to the city, where, in theirmodesty, they would have blushed to a downright crimson had they beenconscious of one-half the admiration which their loveliness calledforth. 

Before the end of the month (it was on the morning of the 18th) I oncemore heard the wagtail's song from the ground. This time the affair wasanything but a rehearsal. There were two birds, --a lover and hislass, --and the wooing waxed fast and furious. For that matter, it lookednot so much like love-making as like an aggravated case of assault andbattery. But, as I say, the male was warbling, and not improbably (sostrange are the ways of the world), if he had been a whit lesspugnacious in his addresses, his lady-love, who was plainly well ableto take care of herself, would have thought him deficient inearnestness. At any rate, the wood wagtail is not the only bird whosecourtship has the appearance of a scrimmage; and I believe there arestill tribes of men among whom similar practices prevail, although thegreater part of our race have learned, by this time, to take somewhatless literally the old proverb, "None but the brave deserve the fair. "Love, it is true, is still recognized as one of the passions (in theoryat least) even among the most highly civilized peoples; but the tendencyis more and more to count it a _tender_ passion. 

While I am on the subject of marriage I may as well mention thewhite-eyed vireo. It had come to be the 16th of the month, and as yet Ihad neither seen nor heard anything of this obstreperous genius; so Imade a special pilgrimage to a certain favorite haunt of his--WoodcockSwamp--to ascertain if he had arrived. After fifteen minutes or more ofwaiting I was beginning to believe him still absent, when he burst outsuddenly with his loud and unmistakable _Chip-a-weé-o_. "Who are _you_, now?" the saucy fellow seemed to say, "Who are _you_, now?" Pretty soona pair of the birds appeared near me, the male protesting his affectionat a frantic rate, and the female repelling his advances with a snappishdetermination which might have driven a timid suitor desperate. Heposed before her, puffing out his feathers, spreading his tail, andcrying hysterically, _Yip, yip, yaah_, --the last note a downright whineor snarl, worthy of the cat-bird. Poor soul! he was well-nigh besidehimself, and could not take _no_ for an answer, even when the word wasemphasized with an ugly dab of his beloved's beak. The pair shortlydisappeared in the swamp, and I was not privileged to witness the upshotof the battle; but I consoled myself with believing that Phyllis knewhow far she could prudently carry her resistance, and would have thediscretion to yield before her adorer's heart was irremediably broken. 

In this instance there was no misconceiving the meaning of the action;but whoever watches birds in the pairing season is often at his wit'send to know what to make of their demonstrations. One morning a linnetchased another past me down the road, flying at the very top of hisspeed, and singing as he flew; not, to be sure, the full and copiouswarble such as is heard when the bird hovers, but still a lively tune. Ilooked on in astonishment. It seemed incredible that any creature couldsing while putting forth such tremendous muscular exertions; and yet, asif to show that this was a mere nothing to him, the finch had no soonerstruck a perch than he broke forth again in his loudest and mostspirited manner, and continued without a pause for two or three timesthe length of his longest ordinary efforts. "What lungs he must have!" Isaid to myself; and at once fell to wondering what could have stirredhim up to such a pitch of excitement, and whether the bird he had beenpursuing was male or female. _He_ would have said, perhaps, if he hadsaid anything, that that was none of my business. 

What I have been remarking with regard to the proneness of newlydiscovered things to become all at once common was well illustrated forme about this time by these same linnets, or purple finches. One rainymorning, while making my accustomed rounds, enveloped in rubber, Istopped to notice a blue-headed vireo, who, as I soon perceived, wassitting lazily in the top of a locust-tree, looking rather disconsolate, and ejaculating with not more than half his customary voice andemphasis, _Mary Ware!--Mary Ware!_ His indolence struck me as verysurprising for a vireo; still I had no question about his identity (hesat between me and the sun) till I changed my position, when behold! thevireo was a linnet. A strange performance, indeed! What could have setthis fluent vocalist to practicing exercises of such an inferior, disconnected, piecemeal sort? Within the next week or two, however, thesame game was played upon me several times, and in different places. Nodoubt the trick is an old one, familiar to many observers, but to me ithad all the charm of novelty. 

There are no birds so conservative but that they will now and thenindulge in some unexpected stroke of originality. Few are more artlessand regular in their musical efforts than the pine warblers; yet I haveseen one of these sitting at the tip of a tree, and repeating a trillwhich toward the close invariably declined by an interval of perhapsthree tones. Even the chipping sparrow, whose lay is yet more monotonousand formal than the pine warbler's, is not absolutely confined to hisscore. I once heard him when his trill was divided into two portions, the concluding half being much higher than the other--unless my ear wasat fault, exactly an octave higher. This singular refrain was given outsix or eight times without the slightest alteration. Such freaks asthese, however, are different from the linnet's _Mary Ware_, inasmuch asthey are certainly the idiosyncrasies of single birds, not a part of theartistic proficiency of the species as a whole. 

During this month I was lucky enough to close a little question which Ihad been holding open for a number of years concerning our very commonand familiar black-throated green warbler. This species, as is wellknown, has two perfectly well-defined tunes of about equal length, entirely distinct from each other. My uncertainty had been as to whetherthe two are ever used by the same individual. I had listened a good manytimes, first and last, in hopes to settle the point, but hithertowithout success. Now, however, a bird, while under my eye, deliveredboth songs, and then went on to give further proof of his versatility byrepeating one of them _minus_ the final note. This abbreviation, by theway, is not very infrequent with _Dendroeca virens_; and he has stillanother variation, which I hear once in a while every season, consistingof a grace note introduced in the middle of the measure, in such aconnection as to form what in musical language is denominated a turn. Atmy first hearing of this I looked upon it as the private property of thebird to whom I was listening, --an improvement which he had accidentallyhit upon. But it is clearly more than that; for besides hearing it indifferent seasons, I have noticed it in places a good distance apart. Perhaps, after the lapse of ten thousand years, more or less, the wholetribe of black-throated greens will have adopted it; and then, when someornithologist chances to fall in with an old-fashioned specimen whostill clings to the plain song as we now commonly hear it, he will fancy_that_ to be the very latest modern improvement, and proceed forthwithto enlighten the scientific world with a description of the novelty. 

Hardly any incident of the month interested me more than a discovery (Imust call it such, although I am almost ashamed to allude to it at all)which I made about the black-capped titmouse. For several mornings insuccession I was greeted on waking by the trisyllabic minor whistle of achickadee, who piped again and again not far from my window. There couldbe little doubt about its being the bird that I knew to be excavating abuilding site in one of our apple-trees; but I was usually notout-of-doors until about five o'clock, by which time the music alwayscame to an end. So one day I rose half an hour earlier than common onpurpose to have a look at my little matutinal serenader. My conjectureproved correct. There sat the tit, within a few feet of his apple-branchdoor, throwing back his head in the truest lyrical fashion, and calling_Hear, hear me_, with only a breathing space between the repetitions ofthe phrase. He was as plainly _singing_, and as completely absorbed inhis work, as any thrasher or hermit thrush could have been. HeretoforeI had not realized that these whistled notes were so strictly a song, and as such set apart from all the rest of the chickadee's repertory ofsweet sounds; and I was delighted to find my tiny pet recognizing thusunmistakably the difference between prose and poetry. 

But we linger unduly with these lesser lights of song. After the musicof the Alice and the Swainson thrushes, the chief distinction of May, 1884, as far as my Melrose woods were concerned, was the entirelyunexpected advent of a colony of rose-breasted grosbeaks. For fiveseasons I had called these hunting-grounds my own, and during that timehad seen perhaps about the same number of specimens of this royalspecies, always in the course of the vernal migration. The present yearthe first comer was observed on the 15th--solitary and, except for anoccasional monosyllable, silent. Only one more straggler, I assumed. Buton the following morning I saw four others, all of them males in fullplumage, and two of them in song. To one of these I attended for sometime. According to my notes "he sang beautifully, although not with anyexcitement, nor as if he were doing his best. The tone was purer andsmoother than the robin's, more mellow and sympathetic, and the strainwas especially characterized by a dropping to a fine contralto note atthe end. " The next day I saw nothing of my new friends till towardnight. Then, after tea, I strolled into the chestnut grove, and walkingalong the path, noticed a robin singing freely, remarking the factbecause this noisy bird had been rather quiet of late. Just as I passedunder him, however, it flashed upon me that the voice and song were notexactly the robin's. They must be the rose-breast's then; and steppingback to look up, I beheld him in gorgeous attire, perched in the top ofan oak. He sang and sang, while I stood quietly listening. Pretty soonhe repeated the strain once or twice in a softer voice, and I glanced upinstinctively to see if a female were with him; but instead, there weretwo males sitting within a yard of each other. They flew off after alittle, and I resumed my saunter. A party of chimney swifts wereshooting hither and thither over the trees, a single wood thrush waschanting not far away, and in another direction a tanager was rehearsinghis _chip-cherr_ with characteristic assiduity. Presently I began to bepuzzled by a note which came now from this side, now from that, andsounded like the squeak of a pair of rusty shears. My first conjectureabout the origin of this _hic_ it would hardly serve my reputation tomake public; but I was not long in finding out that it was thegrosbeaks' own, and that, instead of three, there were at least twicethat number of these brilliant strangers in the grove. Altogether, thehalf hour was one of very enjoyable excitement; and when, later in theevening, I sat down to my note-book, I started off abruptly in ahortatory vein, --"Always take another walk!"

In the morning, naturally enough, I again turned my steps toward thechestnut grove. The rose-breasts were still there, and one of themearned my thanks by singing on the wing, flying slowly--half-hovering, as it were--and singing the ordinary song, but more continuously thanusual. That afternoon one of them was in tune at the same time with arobin, affording me the desired opportunity for a direct comparison. "Itis really wonderful, " my record says, "how nearly alike the two songsare; but the robin's tone is plainly inferior, --less mellow and full. Ingeneral, too, his strain is pitched higher; and, what perhaps is themost striking point of difference, it frequently ends with an attempt ata note which is a little out of reach, so that the voice breaks. " (Thislast defect, by the bye, the robin shares with his cousin the woodthrush, as already remarked. ) A few days afterwards, to confirm my ownimpression about the likeness of the two songs, I called the attentionof a friend with whom I was walking, to a grosbeak's notes, and askedhim what bird's they were. He, having a good ear for matters of thiskind, looked somewhat dazed at such an inquiry, but answered promptly, "Why, a robin's, of course. " As one day after another passed, however, and I listened to both species in full voice on every hand, I came tofeel that I had overestimated the resemblance. With increasingfamiliarity I discerned more and more clearly the respects in which thesongs differed, and each came to have to my ear an individualitystrictly its own. They were alike, doubtless, --as the red-eyed vireo'sand the blue-head's are, --and yet they were not alike. Of one thing Igrew, better and better assured: the grosbeak is out of all comparisonthe finer musician of the two. To judge from my last-year's friends, however, his concert season is very short--the more's the pity. 

I begin to perceive (indeed it has been dawning upon me for some time)that our essay is not to fulfill the promise of its caption. Instead ofthe glorious fullness and variety of the month's music (for May, in thislatitude, is the musical month of months) the reader has been put offwith a few of the more exceptional features of the carnival. He willoverlook it, I trust; and as for the great body of the chorus, who havenot been honored with so much as a mention, they, I am assured, are fartoo amiable to take offense at any such unintentional slight. Let meconclude, then, with transcribing from my note-book an evening entry ortwo. Music is never so sweet as at the twilight hour; and the extractsmay serve at least as a convenient and quasi-artistic ending for a paperwhich, so to speak, has run away with its writer. The first is underdate of the 19th:--

 "Walked, after dinner, in the Old Road, as I have done often of late, and sat for a while at the entrance to Pyrola Grove. A wood thrush was singing not far off, and in the midst a Swainson thrush vouchsafed a few measures. I wished the latter would continue, but was thankful for the little. A tanager called excitedly, _Chip-cherr_, moving from tree to tree meanwhile, once to a birch in full sight, and then into the pine over my head. As it grew dark the crowd of warblers were still to be seen feeding busily, making the most of the lingering daylight. A small-billed water thrush was teetering along a willow-branch, while his congeners, the oven-birds, were practicing their aerial hymn. One of these went past me as I stood by the roadside, rising very gradually into the air and repeating all the way, _Chip, chip, chip, chip_, till at last he broke into the warble, which was a full half longer than usual. He was evidently doing his prettiest. No vireos sang after sunset. A Maryland yellow-throat piped once or twice (he is habitually an evening musician), and the black-throated greens were in tune, but the rest of the warblers were otherwise engaged. Finally, just as a distant whippoorwill began to call, a towhee sang once from the woods; and a moment later the stillness was broken by the sudden outburst of a thrasher. 'Now then, ' he seemed to say, 'if the rest of you are quite done, I will see what _I_ can do. ' He kept on for two or three minutes in his best manner, and at the same time a pair of cat-birds were whispering love together in the thicket. Then an ill-timed carriage came rattling along the road, and when it had passed, every bird's voice was hushed. The hyla's tremulous cry was the only musical sound to be heard. As I started away, one of these tree-frogs hopped out of my path, and I picked him up at the second or third attempt. What did he think, I wonder, when I turned him on his back to look at the disks at his finger-tips? Probably he supposed that his hour was come; but I had no evil designs upon him, --he was not to be drowned in alcohol at present. Walking homeward I heard the robin's scream now and again; but the thrasher's was the last _song_, as it deserved to be. "

Two days later I find the following:--

 "Into the woods by the Old Road. As I approached them, a little after sundown, a chipper was trilling, and song sparrows and golden warblers were singing, --as were the black-throated greens also, and the Maryland yellow-throats. A wood thrush called brusquely, but offered no further salute to the god of day at his departure. Oven-birds were taking to wing on the right and left. Then, as it grew dark, it grew silent, --except for the hylas, --till suddenly a field sparrow gave out his sweet strain once. After that all was quiet for another interval, till a thrasher from the hillside began to sing. He ceased, and once more there was stillness. All at once the tanager broke forth in a strangely excited way, blurting out his phrase two or three times and subsiding as abruptly as he had commenced. Some crisis in his love-making, I imagined. Now the last oven-bird launched into the air and let fall a little shower of melody, and a whippoorwill took up his chant afar off. This should have been the end; but a robin across the meadow thought otherwise, and set at work as if determined to make a night of it. Mr. Early-and-late, the robin's name ought to be. As I left the wood the whippoorwill followed; coming nearer and nearer, till finally he overpassed me and sang with all his might (while I tried in vain to see him) from a tree or the wall, near the big buttonwood. He too is an early riser, only he rises before nightfall instead of before daylight. "

INDEX

 Blackbird, crow, 17; red-winged, 183; rusty, 216. 

 Bluebird, 14, 72, 160, 184, 214, 217. 

 Blue-gray gnatcatcher, 152. 

 Bobolink, 16, 78. 

 Bunting, bay-winged, 27, 174, 234; snow, 190, 195; towhee, 25, 39, 62, 178. 

 Butcher-bird, 5, 11, 66, 208. 

 Cat-bird, 3, 72, 114. 

 Cedar-bird, 26, 50, 126, 269. 

 Chat, yellow-breasted, 69, 152, 153. 

 Chewink, 25, 39, 62, 178. 

 Chickadee, 27, 58, 158, 202, 215, 237, 291. 

 Chimney swift, 23, 96, 272. 

 Cowbird, 183. 

 Creeper, brown, 20, 161, 205, 227, 262; black-and-white, 21, 266, 279. 

 Crow, common, 26, 78, 209; fish, 154, 209. 

 Cuckoo, black-billed, 18. 

 Finch, grass, 27, 174, 234; purple, 27, 119, 173, 199, 217, 287; pine, 206. 

 Flicker, 25, 121, 232. 

 Flycatcher, great-crested, 152; least, 26, 36, 231; phoebe, 26, 215, 230, 269; wood pewee, 36, 231, 257; yellow-bellied, 91. 

 Goldfinch, 16, 19, 60, 173, 188, 190, 193, 236. 

 Grosbeak, cardinal, 27, 37, 152, 173; pine, 197; rose-breasted, 173, 292. 

 Humming-bird, ruby-throated, 21. 

 Indigo-bird, 177. 

 Jay, blue, 26, 65, 208, 264; Canada, 257. 

 Kingbird, 26, 78, 231. 

 Kingfisher, 26, 154. 

 Kinglet, golden-crested, 21, 203; ruby-crowned, 21, 235. 

 Lark, western meadow, 40, 41; shore, 206. 

 Linnet, 27, 119, 173, 199, 217, 287; red-poll, 27, 190, 192. 

 Maryland yellow-throat, 9, 21, 85, 166, 266, 296. 

 Mocking-bird, 27. 

 Night-hawk, 27, 183. 

 Nuthatch, red-bellied, 25; white-bellied, 24. 

 Oriole, Baltimore, 16, 181; orchard, 154. 

 Oven-bird, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136, 256, 283, 296. 

 Pewee, wood 36, 231, 257. 

 Phoebe, 26, 215, 230, 269. 

 Red-poll linnet, 27, 190, 192. 

 Redstart, 21, 86, 135. 

 Robin, 15, 16, 35, 38, 111, 131, 160, 202, 229, 294, 298. 

 Sandpiper, spotted, 123. 

 Scarlet tanager, 125, 153, 171, 257, 296, 298. 

 Shrike, 5, 11, 66, 208. 

 Small-billed water thrush, 21, 86, 266. 

 Snow-bird, 90, 176, 208, 214, 221, 269. 

 Snow bunting, 190, 195. 

 Sparrow, chipping, 10, 16, 126, 173, 233, 289; field, 27, 40, 173, 233; fox-colored, 17, 173, 176, 215, 217, 218; house (or "English"), 14, 17, 20, 22, 45, 110; savanna, 27, 49, 78; song, 15, 40, 173, 174, 200, 214, 217, 219; swamp, 27; tree, 27, 215; white-throated, 16, 80, 207, 271. 

 Swallow, barn, 23; white-bellied, 23, 228. 

 Swift, chimney, 23, 96, 272. 

 Tanager, scarlet, 125, 153, 171, 257, 296, 298. 

 Thrush, brown, 16, 61, 117, 158, 184, 234, 297; gray-cheeked (or Alice's), 17, 140, 141, 281; golden-crowned, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136, 256, 283, 296; hermit, 20, 71, 86, 140, 234, 258, 279; olive-backed (or Swainson's), 20, 86, 88, 140, 281; small-billed water, 21, 86, 266; Wilson's (or veery), 25, 71, 138; wood, 38, 112, 140, 258, 279. 

 Titmouse, black-capped, 27, 58, 158, 202, 215, 237, 291; tufted, 151. 

 Towhee bunting, 25, 39, 62, 178. 

 Veery, 25, 71, 138. 

 Vireo, (or greenlet), blue-headed, 167, 168; red-eyed, 16, 167, 268; solitary, 167, 168; yellow-throated, 27, 167; warbling, 16, 167, 168; white-eyed, 40, 41, 69, 148, 167, 170, 286. 

 Warbler, bay-breasted, 85, 166; Blackburnian, 86, 165, 265; black-and-yellow, 85; black-poll, 21, 85, 165; black-throated blue, 21, 41, 86, 164, 267; black-throated green, 21, 41, 86, 137, 164, 267, 290; blue golden-winged, 42, 145, 164; blue yellow-backed, 21, 86, 164, 268; Canada, 21, 85, 266; chestnut-sided, 42, 266, 271; golden, 21, 164; golden-crowned wagtail, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136; mourning, 85; Nashville, 98, 266; pine-creeping, 166, 228, 237, 289; prairie, 165; summer yellow-bird, 21, 164; worm-eating, 152; yellow red-poll, 234; yellow-rumped, 21, 42, 43, 86, 269. 

 Waxwing, 26, 50, 126, 269. 

 Whippoorwill, 183, 298. 

 Woodcock, 27, 222. 

 Woodpecker, downy, 25; golden-winged, 25, 121, 232; red-bellied, 152; red-headed, 150, 205; yellow-bellied, 8, 26, 271. 

 Wren, great Carolina, 152; winter, 88, 146, 225, 256, 272. 

 * * * * *

_Many books belong to sunshine, and should be readout-of-doors_--WILLMOTT. 

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OUT-DOOR BOOKS

_Selected from the Publications of_

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 4 PARK ST. , BOSTON; 11 EAST 17TH ST. , NEW YORK. 

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Birds and Poets, with other Papers. By JOHN BURROUGHS. 16mo, $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: Birds and Poets; April; Touches of Nature; A Bird Medley;Spring Poems; Our Rural Divinity; Emerson; The Flight of the Eagle (WaltWhitman); Before Genius; Before Beauty. 

Mr. Burroughs, as a careful observer of nature, and one of the mostfascinating descriptive writers, is an author whose reputation willconstantly increase; for what he does in not only an addition to ourinformation, but to the good literature that we put on the shelf withThoreau and White of Selborne. --_Hartford Courant. _

Country By-Ways. By SARAH ORNE JEWETT. 18mo, $1. 25. 

In free and flowing lines Miss Jewett has drawn exquisite pictures ofriver and road and woodland, that fascinate by their happiness ofdescriptive detail, and by the kinship to humanity which the authorfinds in the flowers and trees and fields. Her treatment of theindividuality and life of nature is masterly, and the skill with whichshe projects her figures on the canvas of her imagination is effectiveand suggestive. --_Boston Transcript. _

Drift-Weed. Poems. By CELIA THAXTER. Small 4to, full gilt, $1. 50

None of the poets of to-day have made so deep and sympathetic a study ofthe shifting aspects of the sea as has Mrs. Thaxter, and none of themhave interpreted its meanings and analogies with half her grace andsubtlety. --_Boston Journal_. 

Fresh Fields. By JOHN BURROUGHS. 16mo. $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: Nature in England; English Woods--A Contrast; In Carlyle'sCountry; A Hunt for the Nightingale; English and American Song Birds;Impressions of some English Birds; In Wordsworth's Country; A Glimpse ofEnglish Wildflowers; British Fertility; A Sunday in Cheyn Row; At Sea. 

Locusts and Wild Honey. By JOHN BURROUGHS. 16mo, $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: The Pastoral Bees; Sharp Eyes; Is it going to rain? SpeckledTrout; Birds and Birds; A Bed of Boughs; Birds'-Nesting; The Halcyon inCanada. 

My Summer in a Garden. By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 16mo, $1. 00. 

You cannot open his book without lighting on something fresh andfragrant. --_New York Tribune. _

Nature. "Little Classics, " Vol. XIV. 18mo, $1. 00. 

CONTENTS: A Hunting Of the Deer, by Charles Dudley Warner; Dogs, by P. G. Hamerton; In the Hemlocks, by John Burroughs; A Winter Walk, by H. D. Thoreau; Birds and Bird Voices, by N. Hawthorne; The Fens, by C. Kingsley; Ascent of the Matterhorn, by Edward Whymper; Ascent of MountTyndall, by Clarence King; The Firmament, by John Ruskin. 

Nature, together with Love, Friendship, Domestic Life, Success, Greatness, and Immortality. By R. W. EMERSON. 32mo, 75 cents; _SchoolEdition_, 40 cents. 

Pepacton. By JOHN BURROUGHS. 16mo, $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: Pepacton; A Summer Voyage; Springs; An Idyl of the Honey-Bee;Nature and the Poets; Notes by the Way; Foot-Paths; A Bunch of Herbs;. Winter Pictures; A Camp in Maine; A Spring Relish. 

Poems. By R. W. EMERSON. With Portrait. _Riverside Edition_. 12mo, gilttop, $1. 75. 

This volume contains nearly all the pieces included in the formereditions of "Poems" and "May-Day, " beside other poems not hithertopublished. The collection includes a very large number of poems devotedto nature and natural scenery. 

Poems. By CELIA THAXTER. Small 4to, full gilt, $1. 50. 

They are unique in many respects. Our bleak and rocky New Englandsea-coast, all the wonders of atmospherical and sea-change, have, Ithink, never before been so musically or tenderly sung about. --JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

Poetic Interpretation of Nature. By Principal J. C. SHAIRP. 16mo, gilttop, $1. 25. 

Full of learning and genuine appreciation of the poetry ofNature. --_Portland Press. _

Seaside Studies in Natural History. By ALEXANDER AGASSIZ and ELIZABETHC. AGASSIZ. Illustrated, 8vo, $3. 00. 

The scene of these "Studies" is Massachusetts Bay. 

Summer. Selections from the journals of H. D. THOREAU. With a Map ofConcord. 12mo, gilt top, $1. 50. 

He was the one great observer of external nature whom America has yetproduced, a most subtle portrayer of his own personal thoughts and life, a tribune of the people, a man who joined the strongest powers ofthought with an absolute love of liberty and a perfect fearlessness ofmind. --_The Independent_ (New York). 

Wake-Robin. By John Burroughs. Revised and enlarged edition, illustrated. 16mo, $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: The Return of the Birds; In the Hemlocks; Adirondac;Birds'-Nests; Spring at the Capital; Birch Browsings; The Bluebird; TheInvitation. 

Winter Sunshine. By JOHN BURROUGHS. New Edition, revised and enlarged, with frontispiece illustration. 16mo, $1. 50. 

CONTENTS: Winter Sunshine; Exhilarations of the Road; The Snow Walkers;The Fox; A March Chronicle; Autumn Tides; The Apple; An October Abroad. 

The minuteness of his observation, the keenness Of his perception, givehim a real originality, and his sketches have a delightful oddity, vivacity, and freshness. --_The Nation_ (New York). 

*** _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt ofprice by the Publishers, _

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. , BOSTON, MASS. 

The Gypsies. 

By CHARLES G. LELAND. 

Containing accounts of the Russian, Austrian, English, Welsh, andAmerican Gypsies; together with Papers on the Gypsies in the East, GypsyNames and Family Characteristics, the Origin of the Gypsies, a GypsyMagic Spell, Shelta, the Tinker's Talk; beside Gypsy Stories in Romany, with Translations. In one volume, crown 8vo, red top, $2. 00. 

 * * * * *

_From the New York Tribune. _

Mr. Leland thoroughly understands the love of the gypsy for the free andpicturesque life out-of-doors; he feels it too; his pages glow with it;his fragments of description borrow from it an irresistible charm. Hebrings therefore to the writing of these fascinating chapters the rarequalifications of an exquisite sympathy with his subject and a poeticintuition of its inner character. But his enthusiasm is tempered by hisshrewdness, and saved from extravagance by his keen sense of humor. Itis impossible to read such a book without sharing the author's delightin the queer and not over reputable but highly romantic company to whichit introduces us; and yet it is a great storehouse of serious andrecondite information. 

_From The Independent (New York). _

A volume beautiful for type and paper, fresh and full with the strange, mysterious history of the race of which it treats. It abounds ininteresting studies of the language, in which the author is at home, andof the people. His sketches embrace experiences among gypsies ofdifferent nations, --Russian, Austrian, English, Welsh, andAmerican, --and are original and immensely entertaining. The volumecontains a number of excellent gypsy songs, well translated. 

_From The Churchman (New York). _

The book is, on many accounts, both valuable and fascinating, and isundoubtedly the fullest and most reliable account of the gypsies everwritten. 

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*** _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt ofprice by the Publishers, _

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