IN THE CATSKILLS 



strong for so small a bird, and unites in a remark- 

 able degree brilliancy and plaintiveness. I think 

 of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver. You 

 may know it is the song of a wren, from its gush- 

 ing lyrical character; but you must needs look 

 sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in 

 the act of singing. He is nearly the color of the 

 ground and the leaves ; he never ascends the tall 

 trees, but keeps low, flitting from stump to stump 

 and from root to root, dodging in and out of his 

 hiding-places, and watching all intruders with a 

 suspicious eye. He has a very pert, almost comical 

 look. His tail stands more than perpendicular: it 

 points straight toward his head. He is the least 

 ostentatious singer I know of. He does not strike 

 an attitude, and lift up his head in preparation, and, 

 as it were, clear his throat; but sits there on a log 

 and pours out his music, looking straight before 

 him, or even down at the ground. As a songster, 

 he has but few superiors. I do not hear him after 

 the first week in July. 



While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting 

 the pungent acidulous wood-sorrel, the blossoms 

 of which, large and pink- veined, rise everywhere 

 above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies quickly 

 past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, 

 salutes me with "Whew! Whew!" or "Whoit! 

 Whoit!" almost as you would whistle for your dog. 

 I see by his impulsive, graceful movements, and his 

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