Songs Without Words 



ing with all his might. Certain wild birds have 

 simple songs so pure of tone, or so slowly delivered, 

 or so sharply accented, that the merest novice who 

 can whistle has little difficulty in imitating them well 

 enough to deceive even the feathered singer himself 

 into thinking that one of his kind is replying from 

 the wood. One can "whistle up" silent birds, too, 

 trying first one call, then another, to learn what 

 bird is within hail; then, hearing a reply in the far 

 distance, bring the minstrel nearer and nearer to 

 investigate the freaky song — so like his own and 

 yet so different! — that curiosity must be satisfied 

 by closer inspection, until he frequently gets near 

 enough to photograph, if not to touch. No birds 



are more readily attracted than the 

 "I "p "T" I friendly little chickadees, whose three 

 ^ very high, clear call-notes, once heard, 



are easily imitated. 

 The quail on the outskirts of the farm calls back a 

 a cheerful "bob-white" to your sharp staccato whis- 

 tle, and quite as promptly as if you were a sentry 

 demanding "Who goes there ?" Timid plover hid- 

 ing in the grain fields utter a plaintive, almost petulant 

 kill-dee^ kill-dee to one who can call them by name. 

 The phoebe bird, building under the roadside bridge 

 or the rafters of your piazza, keeps up a monotonous 

 pewit plnrbe^ pewit phcehe whether you ask his name 

 or not, although even he likes to hear it called. 

 His relative, the wood pewee, whose song in B-fiat 

 minor suggests a rather melancholy religieux living 

 apart from this wicked world, is quite ready to repeat 

 his "one sweetly solemn thought," which "comes 

 to him o'er and o'er" — at your suggestion. Indeed, 



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