72 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



had sung for me, and that was something 

 not fairly to be expected. For a good while 

 he kept silence. Then, in response to a jay's 

 scream, he began snarling, or complaining, 

 after the family manner. I enjoyed the sight 

 of him as long as I could stay (he was the 

 second one I had ever seen with anything 

 like certainty), and when I returned, an 

 hour later, he was still there, and still will- 

 ing to be looked at. 



And then, to heighten my pleasure, a 

 rose-breasted grosbeak, invisible, but not far 

 away, broke into a strain of most entrancing 

 music; with no more than half his spring 

 voice, to be sure, but with all his May sweet- 

 ness of tone and inflection. Again and 

 again he sang, as if he were too happy to 

 stop. I had heard nothing of the kind for 

 weeks, and shall probably hear nothing more 

 for months. It was singing to be remem- 

 bered, like Sembrich's "Casta Diva," or 

 Nilsson's "I know that my Kedeemer 

 liveth." 



Scarlet tanagers are still heard and seen 

 occasionally, one was calling to-day, but 

 none of them in tune, or wearing so much as 



