252 CHANGES OF PLUMAGE. 



The singing of the males while yet in the brown plumage, and the 

 fact that it is difficult to have caged birds in any other, appear to be 

 the chief causes of the confusion that there is about the species. If 

 the males are taken young, they moult into the winter plumage, and 

 do not change it ; if they are taken in the flocking time, they retain 

 the brown plumage in their moults ; and if they are captured in the 

 summer, which, from the wildness of their haunts, and the wild 

 habits of the birds, is not a very common case, they lose the red on 

 the first moult, and never regain it afterwards. In summer, too, the 

 female is very apt to be mistaken for the male. When one comes 

 suddenly upon him, attracted by his song, which in the wilds is par- 

 ticularly cheerful, he instantly drops into the bush, before his 

 plumage can be very carefully noticed ; and if one beats the bush, 

 out hops a brown bird, the female, and gets credit for the song of 

 her mate. 



The deception, or the mistake, is further increased by the male 

 ceasing his song and raising his alarm-call as soon as he is seen, and 

 until he disappears in the bush, for he does not generally fly out ; 

 but the female does, and, as is the habit of the female in many birds, 

 she offers herself to the enemy, that is, tempts him by short flights, 

 to wile him away from the nest ; and, when the coast is clear, she 

 again flies into the bush, chirping softly the note of safety ; and soon 

 after the male resumes his song. Thus, though it is the male that 

 is heard, it is the female that is most frequently seen. 



Eobert Nicol has addressed a sweet poem to this bird, 

 which we would fain quote here. 



THE LINNET. 



The songs of Nature, holiest, best are they ! 



The sad winds sighing through the leafy trees 

 The lone lake's murmurs to the mountain breeze 



The streams' soft whispers, as they fondly stray 

 Through dingles wild and over flowery leas, 

 Are sweetly holy ; but the purest hymn 



A melody like some old prophet-lay 



Is thine, poured forth from hedge and thicket dim, 

 Linnet ! wild Linnet ! 



The poor, the scorned and lowly, forth may go 

 Into the woods and dells, where leaves are green, 

 And 'mong the breathing forest flowers may lean, 



And hear thy music wandering to and fro, 



Like sunshine glancing o'er the summer scene. 

 Thou poor man's songster ! neither wealth nor power 



Can match the sweetness thou around dost throw ! 

 Oh ! bless thee for the joy of many an hour, 



Linnet ! wild Linnet ! 





