A BIRD-LOVER’S APRIL. 225 
While I was enjoying the farewell matinée 
of the fox-colored sparrows on the 11th, sud- 
denly there ran into the chorus the fine silver 
thread of the winter wren’s tune. Here was 
pleasure unexpected. It is down in all the 
books, I believe, that this bird does not sing 
while on his travels; and certainly I had my- 
self never known him to do anything of the 
sort before. But there is always something 
new under the sun. 
‘¢ Who ever heard of th’ Indian Peru ? 
Or who in venturous vessell measuréd 
The Amazon’s huge river, now found trew ? 
Or fruitfullest Virginia who did ever vew ?” 
I was all ear, of course, standing motionless 
while the delicious music came again and again 
1885) I am privileged with another sight and sound of the wood- 
cock’s vespertine performance, and under peculiarly favorable 
conditions. In the account given above, sufficient distinction is 
not made between the clicking noise, heard while the bird is soar- 
ing, and the sounds which signalize his descent. The former is 
probably produced by the wings, although I have heretofore 
thought otherwise, while the latter are certainly vocal, and no 
doubt intended as asong. But they are little if at all louder than 
the click, click of the wings, and as far as I have ever been able 
to make out are nothing more than a series of quick, breathless 
whistles, with no attempt at either melody or rhythm. 
In the present instance I could see only the start and the ‘ fin- 
ish,’’ when the bird several times passed directly by and over me, 
as I stood in a cluster of low birches, within two or three rods of 
his point of departure. His angle of flight was small; quite as if 
he had been going and coming from one field to another, in the 
ordinary course. Once I timed him, and found that he was on the 
wing for a few seconds more than a minute. 
15 
