A DECEMBER DAY WITH THE BIRDS. 199 



farewell hymn to the scenes that have become so 

 dear to them. I had the good fortune to hear one 

 of these low, sweet songs on the nineteenth of De- 

 cember, the only time I ever heard the tree sparrow 

 sing,* and I have felt grateful to the obliging little 

 minstrel ever since. 



Continuing my stroll through the dim arcades, 

 I am suddenly brought to a standstill ; there comes 

 to my ear from the remote sylvan depths one of 

 the sweetest, saddest, most haunting bird notes of 

 the wildwood — the minor whistle of the black- 

 capped chickadee. Hear it as it pierces the soli- 

 tude with javelins of sweetness: Ph-e-e-e^ ph-e-e-t ; 

 p-h-e-e-e^ pli-e-e-e-tl with a peculiar wavering in- 

 tonation that defies the alphabet, and that must 

 be heard to be appreciated. There is, moreover, 

 a dulcet swing toward the close of the second 

 syllable, which I cannot catch by any combination 

 of letters, although I have often tried to do so. 



How shall one characterize those haunting notes? 

 They are a musical wail, a threnody of sweetness 

 — I had almost said, the strain of a sentient lyre 

 whose heart-strings have been broken by the stress 



* This was true at the time it was written ; but a year later in the same 

 month I heard the euchanting hiyof a tree sparrow, while on a deligiitful day 

 of February I surprised a large covey of these sparrows giving a unique 

 concert, which was beautiful indeed. Strange to say I did not hear a single 

 tree-sparrow song after that day. These birds are evidently erratic songsters. 



