A BIRD MEDLEY 87 
the eye it is there. Generally a few spears of dry 
grass fall down from the turf above and form a slight 
screen before it. How commonly and coarsely it 
begins, blending with the débris that lies about, and 
how it refines and comes into form as it approaches 
the centre, which is modeled so perfectly and lined 
so softly! Then, when the full complement of eggs 
is laid, and incubation has fairly begun, what a 
sweet, pleasing little mystery the silent old bank 
holds! 
The song sparrow, whose nest I have been de- 
scribing, displays a more marked individuality in 
its song than any bird with which I am acquainted, 
Birds of the same species generally all sing alike, 
but I have observed numerous song sparrows with 
songs peculiarly their own. Last season, the whole 
summer through, one sang about my grounds like 
this: swee-e-t, swee-e-t, swee-e-t, bitter. Day after 
day, from May to September, I heard this strain, 
which I thought a simple but very profound sum- 
ming-up of life, and wondered how the little bird 
had learned it so quickly. The present season, I 
heard another with a song equally original, but not 
so easily worded. Among a large troop of them in 
April, my attention was attracted to one that was a 
master songster,— some Shelley or Tennyson among 
his kind. The strain was remarkably prolonged, 
intricate, and animated, and far surpassed anything 
I ever before heard from that source. 
But the most noticeable instance of departure 
from the standard song of a species I ever knew of 
