BIRDS. 



ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY. 



VOL. II. 



SEPTEMBER. 



No. 3. 



BIRD SONG. 



How songs are made 

 Is a mystery, 

 Which studied for ye t ars 

 Still baffles me. 



R. H. STODDARD. 



OME birds are poets and 

 sing all summer,' 1 says 

 Thoreau. "They are the 

 true singers. Any man 

 can write verses in the 

 love season. We are most interested 

 in those birds that sing for the love of 

 music, and not of their mates ; who 

 meditate their strains and amuse 

 themselves with singing ; the birds 

 whose strains are of deeper sentiment." 

 Thoreau does not mention by name 

 any of the poet-birds to which he 

 alludes, but we think our selections 

 for the present month include some of 

 them. The most beautiful specimen 

 of all, which is as rich in color and 

 "sun-sparkle'' as the most polished 

 gem to which he owes his name, the 

 Ruby-thrdated Humming-bird, cannot 

 sing at all, uttering only a shrill 

 mouse-like squeak. The humming 

 sound made by his wings is far more 

 agreeable than his voice, for "when 

 the mild gold stars flower out" it an- 

 nounces his presence. Then 



"A dim shape quivers about 

 Some sweet rich heart of a rose." 



He hovers over all the flowers that 

 possess the peculiar sweetness that he 

 loves the blossoms of the honey- 

 suckle, the red, the white, and the 

 yellow roses, and the morning glory. 

 The red clover is as sweet to him as 

 to the honey bee, and a pair of them 

 may often be seen hovering over the 

 blossoms for a moment, and then dis- 

 appearing with the quickness of a 



flash of light, soon to return to the 

 same spot and repeat the performance. 

 Squeak, squeak! is probably their call 

 note. 



Something of the poet is the Yellow 

 Warbler, though his song is not quite 

 as long as an epic. He repeats it a 

 little too often, perhaps, but there is 

 such a pervading cheerfulness about 

 it that we will not quarrel with the 

 author. Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet- 

 sweeter-sweeter! is his frequent contri- 

 bution to the volume of nature, and 

 all the while he is darting about the 

 trees, "carrying sun-glints on his back 

 wherever he goes." His song is ap- 

 propriate to every season, but it is in 

 the spring, when we hear it first, that 

 it is doubly welcome to the ear. The 

 grateful heart asks with Bourdillon: 



"What tidings hath the Warbler heard 

 That bids him leave the lands of summer 

 For woods and fields where April yields 

 Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer?" 



The Mourning Dove may be called 

 the poet of melancholy, for its song 

 is, to us, without one element of cheer- 

 fulness. Hopeless despair is in every 

 note, and, as the bird undoubtedly 

 does have cheerful moods, as indicated 

 by its actions, its song must be ap- 

 preciated only by its mate. Coo-o, coo-o! 

 suddenly thrown upon the air and 

 resounding near and far is something 

 hardly to be extolled, we should think, 

 and yet the beautiful and graceful 

 Dove possesses so many pretty ways 

 that every one is attracted to it, and 

 the tender affection of the mated pair 



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