ON BOSTON COMMON. 19 



the nests of smaller birds, and is always skulk- 

 ing about from one tree to another, as though 

 he were afraid of being discovered, as no doubt 

 he is. What Wordsworth wrote of the Euro- 

 pean species (allowance being made for a 

 proper degree of poetic license) is equally ap- 

 plicable to ours : 



" No bird, but an invisible thing, 

 A voice, a mystery." 



When I did finally get a sight of the fellow it 

 was on this wise. As I entered the Garden, 

 one morning in September, a goldfinch was 

 calling so persistently and with such anxious 

 emphasis from the large sophora tree that I 

 turned my steps that way to ascertain what 

 could be the trouble. I took the voice for a 

 young bird's, but found instead a male adult, 

 who was twitching his tail nervously and scold- 

 ing phee-phee, phee-phee, at a black-billed 

 cuckoo perched near at hand, in his usual 

 sneaking attitude. The goldfinch called and 

 called, till my patience was nearly spent. 

 (Small birds know better than to attack a big 

 one so long as the latter is at rest.) Then, at 

 last, the cuckoo started off, the finch after him, 

 and a few minutes later I saw the same flight 

 and chase repeated. Several other goldfinches 

 were flying about in the neighborhood, but 

 only this one was in the least excited. Doubt- 



