THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 2r 



that of the song-sparrow, being softer and wilder, 

 sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of 

 the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of 

 the wood-sparrow, and you have the evening hymn 

 of the vesper-bird, the poet of the plain, un- 

 adorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, up- 

 lying fields where the cattle and sheep are grazing, 

 and sit down in the twilight on one of those warm, 

 clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, 

 near and remote, from out the short grass which the 

 herds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three 

 long, silver notes of peace and rest, ending in some 

 subdued trills and quavers, constitute each separate 

 song. Often you will catch only one or two of the 

 bars, the breeze having blown the minor part away. 

 Such unambitious, quiet, unconscious melody ! It is 

 one of the most characteristic sounds in Nature. 

 The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the 

 quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, 

 are all subtilely expressed in this song ; this is what 

 they are at last capable of. 



The female builds a plain nest in the open field, 

 without so much as a bush or thistle or tuft of grass 

 to protect it or mark its site ; you may step upon it 

 or the cattle may tread it into the ground. But the 

 danger from this source, I presume, the bird consid- 

 ers less than that from another. Skunks and foxes 

 have a very impertinent curiosity, as Finchie well 

 k lows, and j^bank or hedge, or a rank growth of 

 grass or thistles, that might promise protection and 



