76 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



meridian, and the afternoon chorus is not 

 yet in full tune. Most birds sing with the 

 greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon, 

 though there are occasional bursts later in 

 the day, in which nearly all voices join; 

 while it is not till the twilight that the full 

 power and solemnity of the thrush's hymn is 

 felt. 



My attention is soon arrested by a pair of 

 humming-birds, the ruby-throated, disporting 

 themselves in a low bush a few yards from 

 me. The female takes shelter amid the 

 branches, and squeaks exultingly, as the 

 male, circling above, dives down as if to 

 dislodge her. Seeing me, he drops like a 

 feather on a slender twig, and in a moment 

 both are gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted 

 signal, the throats are all atune. I lie on 

 my back with eyes half closed, and analyze 

 the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, 

 and fly-catchers ; while, soaring above all, a 

 little withdrawn and alone, rises the divine 

 soprano of the hermit. That richly mod- 

 ulated warble proceeding from the top of 

 yonder birch, and which unpractised ears 

 would mistake for the voice of the scarlet 

 tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the 

 rose-breasted grossbeak. It is a strong, 



