IN THE HEMLOCKS. 6 1 



his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday 

 suit ; in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish-green, — 

 the color of the female the whole season. 



One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old 

 Barkpeeling is the purple finch or linnet. He sits 

 somewhat apart, usually on a dead hemlock, and 

 warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest song- 

 sters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the her- 

 mit at the head of the thrushes. His song approaches 

 an ecstasy, and, with the exception of the winter 

 wren's, is the most rapid and copious strain to be 

 heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the trills 

 and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that character- 

 ize the wren's ; but there runs through it a round, 

 richly modulated whistle, very sweet and very pleasing. 

 The call of the robin is brought in at a certain point 

 with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is so 

 great and the strain so rapid that the impression is as 

 of two or three birds singing at the same time. He is 

 not common here, and I only find him in these or sim- 

 ilar woods. His color is peculiar, and looks as if it 

 might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in 

 diluted pokeberry juice. Two or three more dippings 

 would have made the purple complete. The female 

 is the color of the song-sparrow, a little larger, with 

 heavier beak, and tail much more forked. 



In a little opening quite free from brush and trees I 

 step down to bathe my hands in the brook, when a 

 small, light slate-colored bird flutters out of the bank, 



