PHILLIDA AND CORIDON. 119 
it, — this another can conjecture as well as my- 
self. I know no more than old Kaspar: — 
‘** Why, that I cannot tell,’ said he, 
‘ But ’t was a famous victory.’ ”’ 
As I turned to come away, the contest all at 
once ceased, and the silence of the woods, or 
what seemed like silence, was really impressive. 
The chewinks and field sparrows were singing, 
but it was like the music of a village singer 
after Patti; or, to make the comparison less 
unjust, like the Pastoral Symphony of Handel 
after a Wagner tempest. 
It is curious how deeply we are sometimes 
affected by a very trifling occurrence. I have 
remembered many times a slight scene in which 
three purple finches were the actors. Of the 
two males, one was in full adult plumage of 
bright crimson, while the other still wore his 
youthful suit of brown. First, the older bird 
suspended himself in mid air, and sang most 
beautifully ; dropping, as he concluded, to a 
perch beside the female. Then the younger 
candidate, who was already sitting near by, 
took his turn, singing nearly or quite as well 
as his rival, but without quitting the branch, 
though his wings quivered. I saw no more. 
Yet, as I say, I have often since thought of the 
three birds, and wondered whether the bright 
feathers and the flying song carried the day 
