IN THE HEMLOCKS. 59 



transpires. The sun is just past the meridian, and the 

 afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most birds 

 sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the fore- 

 noon, 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-catch- 

 ers ; while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and 

 alone, rises the divine soprano of the hermit. That 

 richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of 

 yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears would mis- 

 take for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from 

 that rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak. It is 

 a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song, full 

 of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the 

 performer, but not genius. As I come up under the 

 tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his 

 song. This bird is said to be quite common in the 

 Northwest, but he is rare in the Eastern districts. His 



