Through the Lost River Valley 31 



utes. I had just enough of it to make me wish for more. 

 There is something in the note of the cardinal grosbeak that 

 satisfies my ear more fully, perhaps, than the song of any 

 other bird. It has about it a wholesomeness and yet a sweet- 

 ness and cheer that I have found in no other bird voice. I 

 must confess, however, that when I have made this admission 

 to friends who have more music in their souls than ever I 

 may hope to have, they have regarded it as a bit of enthusi- 

 asm springing from no very sound judgment. Certain it is, 

 however, that no one can tire of the color and marked indi- 

 viduality of the cardinal grosbeak. 



The startled robins had returned to their feeding-ground 

 when from some brush beyond the railroad trestle came a 

 melodious whistle, "Beauty, beauty, beauty." It was the 

 call of Master Redbird. Small blame to him for being vain 

 and for pouring into the ears of his listeners the oft-repeated 

 tale of his beauty. A song sparrow had taken to the topmost 

 rail of a crooked fence, and his ecstatic song was coming from 

 a throat that bade fair to split. When the full, rich notes of 

 the cardinal came over the field and marsh, the sparrow 

 stopped singing, as if he knew that a master's instrument was 

 in tune. From the standpoint of pure melody, however, I 

 am told, and I believe, that the sober-garbed song sparrow 

 need not fear to have his voice put to the test with that of 

 his brilliant cousin. There were a dozen cardinals in the 

 underbrush by the swamp. The singing was constant, but 

 for some reason of their own, the birds sang only one at a 

 time. I thought, perhaps, they felt that a chorus of such 

 sweetness would cloy. The Mesdames Cardinal, of whom 

 there were several, refused to sing at all on that morning, 

 although their notes have a softer sweetness than have those 



