IN THE HEMLOCKS 55 



to dislodge her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather 

 on a slender twig and in a moment both are gone. 

 Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are 

 all atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, 

 and analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, 

 and flycatchers; while, soaring above all, a little with- 

 drawn and alone rises the divine contralto of the 

 hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding 

 from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed 

 ears would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tana- 

 ger, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted 

 grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright 

 noonday song, full of health and assurance, indi- 

 cating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. 

 As I come up under the tree he casts his eye down 

 at me, but continues his song. This bird is said to 

 be quite common in the Northwest, but he is rare 

 in the Eastern districts. His beak is disproportion- 

 ately large and heavy, like a huge nose, which 

 slightly mars his good looks; but Nature has made 

 it up to him in a blush rose upon his breast, and 

 the most delicate of pink linings to the under side 

 of his wings. His back is variegated black and 

 white, and when flying low the white shows con- 

 spicuously. If he passed over your head, you would 

 note the delicate flush under his wings. 



That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hem- 

 lock, glowing like a live coal against the dark back- 

 ground, seeming almost too brilliant for the severe 

 northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. 

 I occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and 



