IN THE CATSKILLS 



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 songsters, and stands at the head of the 

 finches, as the hermit at the head of the thrushes. 

 His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with the ex- 

 ception 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 characterize 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 similar woods. His color is peculiar, and 

 looks as if it might have been imparted by dip- 

 ping a brown bird in diluted pokeberry juice. Two 

 or three more dippings would have made the pur- 

 ple 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 

 100 



