THE BIRDS UNFAMILIAR. 23 



getting lower, sadder, more deliberate, till one 

 feels like running out and committing suicide 

 or annihilating the bird of ill-omen. 



I felt myself a stranger indeed when I reached 

 this pleasant spot, and found that even the birds 

 were unfamiliar. No robin or bluebird greeted 

 me on my arrival ; no cheerful song-sparrow 

 tuned his little pipe for my benefit ; no phoebe 

 shouted the beloved name from the peak of the 

 barn. Everything was strange. One accus- 

 tomed to the birds of our Eastern States can 

 hardly conceive of the country without robins 

 in plenty ; but in this unnatural corner of Uncle 

 Sam's dominion I found but one pair. 



The most common song from morning till 

 night was that of the summer yellow - bird, or 

 yellow warbler. It was not the delicate little 

 strain we are accustomed to hear from this bird, 

 but a loud, clear carol, equal in volume to the 

 notes of our robin. These three birds, with the 

 addition of a vireo or two, were our main de- 

 pendence for daily music, though we were fa- 

 vored occasionally by others. Now the Arkansas 

 goldfinch uttered his sweet notes from the thick 

 foliage of the cottonwood-trees ; then the charm- 

 ing aria of the catbird came softly from the 

 tangle of rose and other bushes; the black- 

 headed grosbeak now and then saluted us from 

 the top of a pine-tree ; and rarely, too rarely, 



