56 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



BO small a bird and unites in a remarkable degree 

 brilliancy and plain tiveness. I think of a tremulous 

 vibrating tongue of silver. You may know it is the 

 Bong of a wren, from its gushing lyrical character : 

 but you must needs look sharp to see the little min- 

 strel, especially while in the act of singing. He is 

 nearly the color of the ground and the leaves ; he 

 never ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flitting 

 from stump to stump and from root to root, dodging 

 in and out of his hiding-places, and watching all in- 

 truders with a suspicious eye. He has a very pert, 

 almost comical look. His tail stands more than per- 

 pendicular : it points straight toward his head. He 

 is the least ostentatious singer I know of. He does 

 not strike an attitude, and lift up his head in prepara- 

 tion, and, as it were, clear his throat ; but sits there 

 on a log and jDOurs out his music, looking straight be- 

 fore him, or even down at the ground. As a song- 

 ster, he has but few superiors. I do not hear him 

 after the first week in July. 



While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting 

 the pungent acidulous wood-sorrel ( Oxalis acetoseltd), 

 the blossoms of which, large and pink-veined, rise 

 everywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored bird 

 flies quickly past, and, alighting on a low limb a few 

 rods off, salutes me with " Whew ! Whew ! " or 

 '* Whoit ! Whoit ! " almost as you would whistle for 

 your dog. I see by his impulsive, graceful move- 

 ments, and his dimly speckled breast, that it is a 

 khrush. Presently he utters a few soft, mellow, fiute* 



