A BIRD-LOVER'S APRIL. 225 



While I was enjoying the farewell matinee 

 of the fox-colored sparrows on the llth, sud- 

 denly there ran into the chorus the fine silver 

 thread of the winter wren's tune. Here was 

 pleasure unexpected. It is down in all the 

 books, I believe, that this bird does not sing 

 while on his travels ; and certainly I had my- 

 self never known him to do anything of the 

 sort before. But there is always something 

 new under the sun. 



" Who ever heard of th' Indian Peru ? 

 Or who in venturous vessell measured 

 The Amazon's huge river, now found trew ? 

 Or fruitfullest Virginia who did ever vew ?" 



I was all ear, of course, standing motionless 

 while the delicious music came again and again 



1885) I ain privileged with another sight and sound of the wood- 

 cock's vespertine performance, and under peculiarly favorable 

 conditions. In the account given above, sufficient distinction is 

 not made between the clicking noise, heard while the bird is soar- 

 ing, and the sounds which signalize his descent. The former is 

 probably produced by the wings, although I have heretofore 

 thought otherwise, while the latter are certainly vocal, and no 

 doubt intended as a song. But they are little if at all louder than 

 the click, click of the wings, and as far as I have ever been able 

 to make out are nothing more than a series of quick, breathless 

 whistles, with no attempt at either melody or rhythm. 



In the present instance I could see only the start and the " fin- 

 ish," when the bird several times passed directly by and over me, 

 as I stood in a cluster of low birches, within two or three rods of 

 his point of departure. His angle of flight was small; quite as if 

 he had been going and coming from one field to another, in the 

 ordinary course. Once I timed him, and found that he was on the 

 wing for a few seconds more than a nr'nute. 

 15 



