324 



THE CATHIRI). 



.iiulieiice," etc. Stmic lack nriginalitv . ft-rliiig. arc incapable of .sustained 

 elTort, cannot imitate otlier Itirds. etc. liiit sunie Catbirds are annin}; the 

 most talente<l singers known. One siidi I remember, which, tnerconie by tlie 

 diarms of a May day sunset, inomited the tij) of a pasture elm. and jMiured 

 forth a hynni of praise in which every voice of woodland and field was lai'I 

 imder contrilmtion. Vet all were sutTuseil by the singer's own emotion. Oh. 

 how that \oice rang out ni)on the still evening air! The liird sang with true 

 feeling, an artist in every sense, and the delicacy and accuracy of his phrasing 

 nnist have silenced a much more captious critic than I. Never at a loss for a 

 note, never pausing to ask himself what he should sing next, he went steadily 

 on. now with a phrase from Robin's song, now with the shrill cry of the Red- 

 lieaded Woodpecker, each softened and refined as his own inf.dlible musical 

 t.iste dictated; now and again he interspersed these with bits of his own no 

 less beanlifni. The carol of \'ireo, the temler ditties of tJie Song and X'esper 

 Sparrows, and the more pretentious efforts of C.rosbcaks, had all imjiresseil 

 themselves upon this musician's ear, and he repeated them, not slavishly, but 

 with discernment and deej) appreciation. As the sun sank lower in the west 

 1 left him there, a dull gray bird, with form scarcely outlined against the 

 evening sky, but my soul had taken (light with his — u]) into that blest alxxle 

 where all Xalme's \-oices arc blended into one. and all music is praise. 



Photo by llie .lull.. 



A n.M'.NT Ol- rilK C.MIllKl). 



