88 LYRISTS OF A SUBURB. 



If the bird stiinds facing you, you will notice a 

 small black spot on the chest. In some places it 

 is called the road-bird. Its song is exceedingly 

 pleasing, now lifted high and clear, now falling 

 as if the soloist were exhausted, and anon rising 

 with renewed vigor. Heard once, it cannot be 

 forgotten. 



In a paper published in one of our popular mag- 

 azines, John Burroughs expresses some disappoint- 

 ment with the minstrelsy of this finch, intimating 

 that his vocal powers have been rated too high by 

 writers on bird life in our Middle States. It is 

 possible that he expected too much of the bird, but 

 I am inclined to think that he did not hear it at 

 its best. I have myself heard it sing in a low, 

 squeaking voice that was not very pleasing, I admit, 

 although it seemed to point in the direction of 

 exquisite reserves of talent and vocal skill. But 

 one evening as I was returning in the gloaming 

 from a tramp through the woods, I heard this bird 

 singing a superlativel}'^ rich roundelay. At first it 

 rose on the air from a stump in the corn-field, 

 causing me to pause in rapture, and then the blithe 

 musician flew to the rail fence of the lane which I 

 was pursuing, alighting not more than two rods 

 away, and again broke into song. 



