236 A BIRDgLO VER’S APRIL. 
the other, broke out intosong. ‘ ‘ Infinite riches 
in a little room,’ ” my note-book says, again; and 
truly the song is marvelous, — a prolonged and 
varied warble, introduced and often broken into, 
with delightful effect, by a wrennish chatter. 
For fluency, smoothness, and ease, and especially 
for purity and sweetness of tone, I have never 
heard any bird-song that seemed to me more 
nearly perfect. If the dainty creature would 
bear confinement, —on which point I know 
nothing, — he would make an ideal parlor song- 
ster; for his voice, while round and full, — in 
contrast with the goldfinch’s, for example, — is 
yet, even at its loudest, of a wonderful softness 
and delicacy. Nevertheless, I trust that nobody 
will ever cage him. Better far go out-of-doors, 
and drink in the exquisite sounds as they drop 
from the thick of some tall pine, while you catch 
now and then a glimpse of the tiny author, flit- 
ting busily from branch to branch, warbling at 
his work; or, as you may oftener do, look and 
listen to your heart’s content, while he explores 
some low cedar or a cluster of roadside birches, 
too innocent and happy to heed your presence. 
So you will carry home not the song only, but 
“ the river and sky.” . 
But if the kinglets were individually the best 
singers, I must still confess that the goldfinches 
gave the best concert. It was on asunny after- 
