A BIRD-LOVER'S APRIL. 237 



noon, — the 27th, — and in a small grove of tall 

 pitch-pines. How many birds there were I 

 could form little estimate, but when fifteen flew 

 away for a minute or two the chorus was not 

 perceptibly diminished. All were singing, twit- 

 tering, and calling together ; some of them di- 

 rectly over my head, the rest scattered through- 

 out the wood. No one voice predominated in 

 the least ; all sang softly, and vrith an inde- 

 scribable tenderness and beauty. Any who do 

 not know how sweet the goldfinch's note is may 

 get some conception of the effect of such a con- 

 cert if they will imagine fifty canaries thus en- 

 gaged out-of-doors. I declared then that I had 

 never heard anything so enchanting, and I am 

 not certain even now that I was over-enthusi- 

 astic. 



A pine-creeping warbler, I remember, broke 

 in upon the choir two or three times with his 

 loud, precise trill. Foolish bird ! His is a pretty 

 song by itself, but set in contrast with music so 

 full of imagination and poetry, it sounded pain- 

 fully abrupt and prosaic. 



I discovered the first signs of nest-building on 

 the 13th, while investigating the question of a 

 bird's ambi-dexterity. It happened that I had 

 just been watching a chickadee, as he picked 

 chip after chip from a dead branch, and held 

 them fast with one claw, while he broke them in 



