THE BLACKCAP. 23 
THE GARDEN WARBLER 
SYLVIA HORTENSIS 
Upper parts greyish brown, slightly tinged with olive; orbits white; below 
the ear a patch of ash-grey; throat dull white; breast and flanks grey, 
tinged with rust colour ; rest of the under parts dull white. Length five 
inches and three-quarters; breadth eight and a half. Eggs greenish 
white, speckled with two shades of greenish brown. 
THOUGH tolerably well dispersed throughout England, this bird 
is by no means so abundant as the Blackcap, which it resembles 
in size and habits, but it arrives later, coming early in May. It 
is very local. Its song is little if at all inferior to that of the bird 
just named, and it is far from improbable that some of the sweet 
strains for which the Blackcap gets credit, particularly late in the 
summer, may be produced by the Garden Warbler; I have heard its 
song so late as the fifth of October. Bysomeauthorsit is called the 
Greater Pettychaps, by others the Fauvette, which latter name is 
by some French ornithologists applied to the group containing this 
bird and several allied species. Its nest and eggs are so like those 
of the Blackcap as to be discriminated with difficulty. 
THE BLACKCAP 
SYLVIA ATRICAPILLA 
Top and back of the head black, in the female chocolate colour} upper parts, 
wings, and tail ash-grey, slightly tinged with olive; neck light grey 
passing into greyish white; bill and feet black. Length five inches and 
a half; breadth eight anda half. Eggs pale greenish white, variously 
mottled with several shades of brown; sometimes pinkish, mottled with 
light purple, and speckled with dark purple. 
WHATEVER difference of opinion there may be as to the character 
of the Nightingale’s song—whether it partakes more of joyousness 
or of melancholy—the gladsomeness of the Blackcap’s warble is 
beyond all dispute. Conceding to the Nightingale the first place 
among the warblers which visit England, we do not hesitate to 
claim the second for the Blackcap. Its song is inferior in power 
and compass to that of the bird of night, but there is about it a 
delicious eloquence which makes it irresistibly charming. White 
of Selborne describes it as “‘ full, sweet, deep, loud and wild ” ; high 
but not unmerited praise. If there are no vocal efforts to astonish, 
there are no piteous wailings to distress, and though the bird retires 
to rest at a reasonable hour, it continues its song until a late period 
of the season, long after that of the Nightingale has degenerated 
to a croak. It has been compared to that of the Redbreast, but 
it is more mellow and flute-like ; to that of the Thrush, but it is 
softer and of more compass; to that of the Lark, but it is more 
varied. A practised ear will confound it with neither of these, though, 
