The Birds’ Calendar 
Thus I shall never forget the first song of 
the European goldfinch as it greeted the morn- 
ing sun on the last day of February. Much as 
it resembles that of the American species it is 
distinctly different—so rich, liquid, and bub- 
bling. The captious critic would say it is not 
all that could be desired—nothing is, for that 
matter—for with all its luscious and exuberant 
qualities it is characterless as regards form, as in 
our own species, but without the wiriness and 
undertone of petulance so often found in the 
latter. It is a most valuable accession to the 
avifauna of this country, and may it live and 
thrive, and never regret its translation to these 
shores. 
Leaving the finch to its own jubilation, I 
soon heard the sharp chuck, uttered singly, of 
the downy woodpecker. These woodpeckers 
are not singers, even in the most charitable 
construction of the term, and it is difficult to 
interpret their state of mind from the sounds 
they make. Doubtless he was as happy as the 
finch, only lacking the gift to express himself ; 
like the swans, that plainly feel the exhilaration 
of spring warmth as much as anybody, and wax 
exceedingly vociferous if not melodious thereat. 
Farther on the simple carol of the song spar- 
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