is so manifest, and their constancy so 

 conspicnous, that the name has become 

 a symbol of domestic concord. 



The Cuckoo must utter his note in 

 order to be recognized, for few that 

 are learned in bird lore can discrimi- 

 nate him save from his notes. He 

 proclaims himself by calling forth his 

 own name, so that it is impossible to 

 make a mistake about him. Well, 

 his note is an agreeable one and has 

 made him famous. As he loses his 

 song in the summer months, he is 

 inclined to make good use of it when 

 he finds it again. English boys are 

 so skillful in imitating the Cuckoo's 

 song, which they do to an exasperating 

 extent, that the bird himself may 

 often wish for that of the Nightingale, 

 which is inimitable. 



But the Cuckoo's song, monotonous 

 as it is, is decidedly to be preferred to 

 that of the female House Wren, with its 

 Chit-chit-chit-chit, when suspicious or in 

 anger. The male, however, is a real 

 poet, let us say — and sings a merry 

 roulade, sudden, abruptly ended, and 

 frequently repeated. He sings, ap- 

 parently, for the love of music, and is 

 as merry and gay when his mate is 

 absent as when she is at his side, 

 proving that his singing is not solely 

 for her benefit. 



So good an authority as Dr. Cones 

 vouches for the exquisite vocalization 

 of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Have 

 you ever heard a wire vibrating? Such 

 is the call note of the Ruby, thin and 

 metallic. But his song has a fullness, 

 a variety, and a melody, which, being 

 often heard in the spring migration, 

 make this feathered beauty addition- 

 ally attractive. Many of the fine 

 songsters are not brilliantly attired, 

 but this fellow has a combination of 

 attractions to commend him as worthy 

 of the bird student's careful attention. 



Of the Hermit Thrush, whose song 

 is celebrated, we will say only, "Read 

 everything you can find about him." 

 He will not be discovered easily, for 



even Olive Thorne Miller, who is pre- 

 sumed to know all about birds, tells of 

 her pursuit of the Hermit in northern 

 New York, where it was said to be 

 abundant, and finding, when she 

 looked for him, that he had always 

 "been there" and was gone. But one 

 day in August she saw the bird and 

 heard the song and exclaimed : "This 

 only was lacking — this crowns my 

 summer." 



The Song Sparrow can sing too, and 

 the Phoebe, beloved of man, and the 

 White-breasted Nuthatch, a little. 

 They do not require the long-seeking 

 of the Hermit Thrush, whose very 

 name implies that he prefers to flock 

 by himself, but can be seen in our 

 parks throughout the season. But the 

 Sparrow loves the companionship of 

 man, and has often been a solace to 

 him. It is stated by the biographer of 

 Kant, the great metaphysician, that 

 at the age of eighty he had become 

 indifferent to much that was passing 

 around him in which he had formerly 

 taken great interest. The flowers 

 showed their beautious hues to him in 

 vain ; his weary vision gave little heed 

 to their loveliness; their perfume 

 came unheeded to the sense which 

 before had inhaled it with eagerness. 

 The coming on of spring, which he 

 had been accustomed to hail with 

 delight, now gave him no joy save 

 that it brought back a little Sparrow, 

 which came annually and made its 

 home in a tree that stood by his 

 window. Year after year, as one 

 generation went the way of all the 

 earth, another would return to its 

 birth-place to reward the tender care 

 of their benefactor by singing to him 

 their pleasant songs. And he longed 

 for their return in the spring witli "an 

 eagerness and intensity of expecta- 

 tion." 



How many provisions nature has 

 for keeping us simple-hearted and 

 child-like ! The Song Sparrow is one 

 of them. — C. C. Marble. 



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