the winter wren. The kinglet's song has a ca- 

 dence unlike any other, reminding one of water 

 murmuring underground, and for some reason a 

 classic suggestion, as of faun and satyr. It is more 

 truly sylvan than any other sylvan in the old 

 Greek sense, so elusive and shy it is, so mysterious. 

 Such voices give no evidence of self-conscious- 

 ness; they are as impersonal as the winds or as 

 the murmuring stream. But with the catbird, the 

 thrasher and the mocking-bird, pre-eminently vo- 

 calists, there is a set and declamatory method which 

 has the appearance of affectation. Their songs are 

 brilliant and elaborately phrased, but they lack 

 spontaneity, and in listening to them one wishes 

 they had put their powers to a different use. The 

 thrasher is particularly self-conscious and stagey, 

 and yet he has a glorious voice. No bird has a 

 finer quality of tone than he shows in some of his 

 notes clear, mellow, vibratory as in the voices of 

 really great tenors. It is that quality which Na- 

 ture alone supplies and no cultivation nor perfec- 

 tion of method can give. When he speaks to his 

 mate in an undertone his voice would melt a heart 

 of stone. There is a time, however, when the 

 catbird rises above any suspicion of self-conscious- 



49 



