92 LYRISTS OF A SUBURB. 



tation as a songster that he often repeats his notes 

 on the wing, unable to wait until he reaches a 

 perch. Why, I even heard that song coming 

 across the commons at ten o'clock one moonlight 

 night. 



Going out to the clover-fields in June, I give my 

 ears to the birds, and watch them as they perform 

 their feats of scaling in the air. Among the many 

 notes I detect a fine trill running like a golden 

 thread through the weft of the other music ; and 

 although the little flutist is nowhere to be seen, I 

 know from previous acquaintance that he is the 

 yellow-winged or grasshopper sparrow, one of the 

 smallest of the numerous family to which he be- 

 longs. He is so shy in the breeding season that it 

 is almost impossible to get near enough to identify 

 him even with an opera-glass, and I have often 

 lost my patience in hunting for him. Sometimes 

 he sits on a weed so far away that you can just 

 discern a dark, tiny bird-form ; yet you may know 

 it is he by his sharp, fine Tneeee I occasionally pro- 

 longed into a ditty of considerable beauty. Later 

 in the season, however, you may get near enough 

 to see his black crown, with its yellowish median 

 line ; and perhaps you may make out to discover 

 the yellow edgings of his wings. 



