118 FRESH FIELDS 



The golden voice of the wood thrush that came 

 to me from the border of the woods on my right 

 was no hindrance to the ear, it was so serene, 

 liquid, and, as it were, transparent: the lark's song 

 has nothing in common with it. Neither were the 

 songs of the many bobolinks in the meadow at all 

 confusing, a brief tinkle of silver bells in the 

 grass, while I was listening for a sound more like 

 the sharp and continuous hum of silver wheels upon 

 a pebbly beach. Certain notes of the red-shoul- 

 dered starlings in the alders and swamp maples near 

 by, the distant barbaric voice of the great crested 

 flycatcher, the jingle of the kingbird, the shrill, 

 metallic song of the savanna sparrow, and the pier- 

 cing call of the meadowlark, all stood more or less 

 in the way of the strain I was listening for, because 

 every one had a touch of that burr or guttural hum 

 of the lark's song. The ear had still other notes 

 to contend with, as the strong, bright warble of the 

 tanager, the richer and more melodious strain of 

 the rose-breasted grosbeak, the distant, brief, and 

 emphatic song of the chewink, the child-like con- 

 tented warble of the red-eyed vireo, the animated 

 strain of the goldfinch, the softly ringing notes of 

 the bush sparrow, the rapid, circling, vivacious 

 strain of the purple finch, the gentle lullaby of the 

 eong sparrow, the pleasing "wichery," "wichery" 

 of the yellow-throat, the clear whistle of the oriole, 

 the loud call of the high-hole, the squeak and chat- 

 ter of swallows, etc. But when the lark did rise 

 in full song, it was easy to hear him athwart all 



