A LITTLE-KNOWN SINGER 



Among the many birds that act as ad 

 vance guard for the returning sun there 

 are few common species less widely 

 known than the two kinglets, the golden 

 and the ruby-crowned. This general ig 

 norance does not spring from any diffi 

 culty in finding the birds, for during the 

 spring migration these two are widely 

 and plentifully distributed throughout 

 the Mississippi Valley from the Appa 

 lachians to the great river itself. 



Of the two, the ruby-crowned is thr 

 easier to find ; I have seen at one time as 

 many as six of these sprightly mites in 

 one haw tree not more than twenty feet 

 high, and twenty or more of them in the 

 course of an hour's walk in a certain lit 

 tle valley in Woodford County, Illinois. 

 In the fall and winter it is usually hard 

 to get a good view of the bit of red which 

 is the species label on Regulus calendula. 

 I remember working every day for a 

 week in his winter quarters in central 

 Mississippi before I got a good look at 

 the half concealed crown patch. In the 

 spring, however, when his thoughts are 

 turning to the same subject as the young 

 man's, he is much more generous of his 

 charms ; perhaps it is the near approach 

 of the mating and nesting season that 

 warms up his little heart, or it may be 

 that he believes in the efficacy of bright 

 colors to catch the female eye. 



The frequent glimpses of this tell-tale 

 tuft of ruby are not the least among the 

 mid-April treats, but the music of his 

 happy mating-time marks a red-letter day 

 in the long calendar of spring surprises. 

 I will not go into any comparison of the 

 color and the song of this bird, for I 

 realize how treacherous is the quagmire 

 into which a man steps when he deliber 

 ately sets himself to compare two things 

 so different in their appeal to one's sensi 

 bilities. 



The song of Regulus calendula is de 

 serving of more attention than the public, 

 even the bird-loving public, has hitherto 

 bestowed upon it; indeed I cannot re- 



' member seeing a single person, not an 

 ornithologist, who confessed that he had 

 ever noticed the song of this bird until 

 his attention was called to it. and the 

 singer pointed out to him. While I am 

 on the subject of confessions I might as 

 well make my own ; I consider myself a 

 good observer, but I never heard the 

 song in question till four or five years 

 ago. One fine March morning I went 

 down into a bird-haunted ravine and 

 seated myself on a log to gather inspir 

 ation for my day's labors, listening to the 

 chorus of residents and migrants 

 March in Mississippi is as far advanced 

 as May in the latitude of Central Illinois 

 or Ohio; up from the cane-brakes and 

 magnolia groves came a medley ; a brown 

 thrasher, two cardinals, some whistling 

 white throats, a song sparrow, and the 

 prince of southern singers, the mocking 

 bird ; then suddenly there fell on my ear, 

 sounding faint and far away, one of the 

 sweetest, tenderest little songs I have 

 ever heard. The bubble and enthusiasm 

 of the Carolina wren, the soft, sweet, 

 flutings of the mocking bird's nocturne, 

 a suggestion of the resonant tone of the 

 song sparrow, with an underlying cur 

 rent of self-forgetful passion made music 

 that I could not forget if I would. 

 Brown thrasher, cardinal, sparrows, even 

 the mocking bird passed out of mind; 

 they could sing for me some other time 

 when this strange new melody was not 

 coming out of the canes with every puff 

 of the jessamine-laden breeze. I rose and 

 walked quietly over toward the thickest 

 of the brake and peered intently into 

 the leafy twilight, as I did so the sound 

 seemed to change direction and to come 

 from the tree above ; no bird there, either. 

 Even as I looked, the music burst out 

 afresh, apparently bqfore my eyes, but 

 stare as I might, only the little yellow 

 bells of the jessamine came into the field 

 of vision; At last as I was about to re 

 turn to my seat on the log feeling that 

 deep sense of defeat that only an ornith- 



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