170 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



the loosened oak blossoms drifting to the ground, 

 from high out of an oak top came a most exquisite 

 song. At the first note of this grosbeak all other 

 songs were forgotten — they were noise and 

 chatter — this was pure music. It was like pass- 

 ing from the cries of the street into the hall of a 

 symphony concert. The black-headed grosbeak 

 has not the spirituality of the hermit thrush, and 

 his ordinary song is not so remarkable, but his 

 love song excels that of any bird I have ever heard 

 in finish, rich melody, and music. As I listened, 

 my surroundings harmonized so perfectly with the 

 wonderful song echoing through the great trees 

 that the old oak garden seemed an enchanted 

 bower. The drooping branches were a leafy lat- 

 tice through which the afternoon sun filtered, 

 steeping the oaks in thick still sunshine. Last 

 year's leaves drifted slowly to the ground, while 

 the bees droned about the yellow tassels of the 

 blooming trees. As a violinist, lingering to per- 

 fect a note, draws his bow again and again over 

 the strings, so this rapt musician dwelt tenderly 

 on his highest notes, trolling them over till each 

 was more exquisite and tender than the last, and 

 the ear was charmed with his love song — a song 

 of ideal love fit to be dreamed of in this stately 

 green oak garden filled with golden sunlight. 



