TANGLES OF BIRD-SONG. 105 



although the music was somewhat different in 

 character. I think that was also in June. At an 

 early hour I was wending my way along the wind- 

 ing banks of a creek, when, just beyond a railroad 

 biidge, in a loop of the stream, I found a low, wet, 

 boggy stretch, overgrown with weeds, willows and 

 other bushes, while farther back on the slope 

 there was a grove of small oak-trees. This place 

 turned out to be a sparrows' elysium, and these 

 birds were having their jubilee when I arrived on 

 the scene. They were, of course, the song spar- 

 rows, those indomitable minstrels. Almost every 

 voice in that choral was a sparrow voice, but the 

 music was scarcely less enchanting than that of 

 the concert previously described, and I am sure 

 it was almost as full-toned, though not as varied. 

 On every bush, on every weed-stalk, and even on 

 the tufts of sod raised by the winter's frosts, these 

 birds seemed to find a perch from which to sing their 

 roundels, making the air fairly dance with musical 

 transport, and bringing from me a shout of delight 

 that would not be hushed. Could I have recalled 

 the lines I might have exclaimed with Pope : 



" Hear how the birds, on every blooming spray, 

 With joyous music wake the dawning day." 



