268 ODD HOURS WITH NATURE 



of quite ecstatic song. The head is thrown up 

 with the gesture of a prima donna, it moves from 

 side to side, and the bill opens and shuts with 

 the play that should attend copious utterance. Yet 

 not a sound is heard. Get a little nearer and you 

 seem to be approaching a concert in which cas- 

 tanets are the only instruments employed. The 

 noise is caused by the rapid opening and shutting 

 of many bills. A little nearer still and you get 

 within musical range, and find that the starling 

 is quite a fine musician in intention, though his 

 powers of execution are small. He has a good 

 ear and a fine sense of rhythm, and, in fact, every- 

 thing that goes to the making of a first-class sing- 

 ing bird, except size of voice. The voice is hardly 

 larger than that of a competent cricket, and a 

 whole flock cannot make so much sound as one 

 little wren. But, then, the song of the wren is 

 a marvel in the magnitude of its outburst, even 

 if it were not contrasted with the tininess of the 

 bird. 



There is, however, one very wonderful thing 

 about the starling's song. As you listen to it, many 

 of the notes and phrases seem familiar in a far- 

 away fashion. One of the performers has got 

 the notes of a blackbird, and he goes over them 

 again and again. If the listener knows bird notes 

 well he can pick out in the concert those of almost 

 every songster of the grove, but always uttered as 

 if the performer, in the language of the nursery, 

 were " saying it little to himself." The truth is, 

 the starling is a conscious mimic. He has notions 

 about music, listens appreciatively to the song of 



