16 THE KINGBIRD'S NEST. 



wliy I should be so surprised to hear a kingbird 

 sing, for I believe that one of the things we shall 

 discover, when we begin to study birds alive in- 

 stead of dead, is that every one has a song, at 

 least in spring, when, in the words of an enthu- 

 siastic bird -lover, "the smallest become poets, 

 often sublime songsters." I have already heard 

 several sing that are set down as lacking in that 

 mode of expression. 



To return to my kingbird, struggling with his 

 early song. After practicing perhaps fifteen or 

 twenty minutes, he left his perch, flew across 

 the yard, and circled around the top bough, with 

 his usual good-morning to his partner, who at 

 once slipped off and went for her breakfast, 

 while he stayed to watch the nest. 



This magic dawn could not last. It grew 

 lighter ; the sun was bestirring himself. I heard 

 oars on the bay; and now that the sounds of 

 men began, the robin mounted the fence and 

 sang his waking song. The rogue ! — he had 

 been "laughing" and shouting for an hour. 

 "Awake! awake! " he seemed to say; and on 

 our dreamy beds we hear him, and think it the 

 first sound of the new day. Then, too, came 

 the jubilee of the English sparrow, welcoming 

 the appearance of mankind, whose waste and 

 improvidence supply so easily his larder. Why 

 should he spend his time hunting insects ? The 



