IN THE CATSKILLS 



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 hum- 

 mingbirds, the ruby-throated, disporting them- 

 selves 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 flycatchers ; while, soaring 

 above all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the 

 divine contralto of the hermit. That richly modu- 

 lated warble proceeding from the top of yonder 

 birch, and which unpracticed ears would mistake 

 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 con- 

 tinues his song. This bird is said to be quite com- 

 mon in the Northwest, but he is rare in the East- 

 ern districts. His beak is disproportionately large 

 and heavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars 

 his good looks; but Nature has made it up to him 

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