hue, but so variously is it intermingled 

 with brown at different times and sea- 

 sons and ages, that scarcely two finches 

 look alike. The mother-bird wears the 

 protective colors of the sparrow, while 

 young males seem to be of doubtful 

 mind which parent to copy; and so a 

 purple finch family presents diversity 

 of attire puzzling to a novice. 



But why, pray, should a bird family 

 wear a uniform, as if a charity school 

 or a foundling hospital? The gay little 

 warblers are not institutional to that 

 degree. An example of their origi- 

 nality is redstart — another misnamed 

 bird. He wears the colors of Princeton 

 College, or rather, the college wears 

 his; and a lordly male privilege it is, 

 in both cases. His mate contents her- 

 self with pale yellow and gray, while 

 the young male waits three years be- 

 fore putting on his father's coat. The 

 first year he wears his mother's dress; 

 the second, a motley betwixt and be- 

 tween; the third, he is a tree "'can- 

 delita'' or little torch, lighting up his 

 winter home in a Cuban forest, and 

 bringing Spanish fashions to New Eng- 

 land with the May blossoms. 



When dame nature in the spring- 

 For her annual opening- 

 Has her doors and windows washed by April 

 showers; 

 When the sun has turned the key. 



And the loosened buds are free 

 To come out and pile the shelving rocks with 

 flowers; 



When the maple wreathes her head 



With a posy-garland red, 

 And the grass-blade sticks a feather in his 

 cap; 



When the tassels trim the birch. 



And the oak-tree in the lurch 

 Hurries up to g"et some fringfes for his wrap; 



When the willow's yellow sheen 

 And the meadow's emerald g^reen 



Are the fashionable colors of the day; 

 When the bank its pledg-es old 

 Pays in dandelion g^old, 



And horse-chestnut folds its baby hands to 

 pray- 

 Then from Cuba and the isles 

 Where a tropic sun beguiles, 



And from lands beyond the Caribbean sea, 

 Every dainty warbler flocks 

 With a tiny music-box 



And a trunk of pretty feathers duty-free. 



And in colors manifold. 



Orange, scarlet, blue, and gold, 

 Green and yellow, black, and brown and 

 grays galore. 



They will thread the forest aisles 



With the very latest styles. 

 And a tune apiece to open up the score. 



But they do not care to part 

 With their decorative art. 

 Which must always have the background of 

 a tree; 

 And will surely bring a curse 

 To a grasping mind or purse, 

 Since God loves the birds as well as you and 

 me. 



BIRDS THAT DO NOT SING. 



SINGING is applied to birds in the 

 same sense that it is to human 

 beings — the utterance of musical 

 notes. Every person makes vocal 

 sounds of some kind, but many persons 

 never attempt to sing. So it is with 

 birds. The eagle screams, the owl 

 hoots, the wild goose honks, the crow 

 caws, but none of these discordant 

 sounds can be called singing. 



With the poet, the singing of birds 

 means merry, light-hearted joyousness, 

 and most of us are poetic enough to view 

 it in the same way. Birds sing most in 

 the spring and the early summer, those 

 happiest seasons of the year, while em- 

 ployed in nest-building and in rearing 

 their young. Many of our musical sing- 

 ers are silent all the rest of the year; at 

 least they utter only low chirpings. 



Outside of what are properly classed 

 as song birds there are many species 

 that never pretend to sing; in fact, 

 these far outnumber the musicians. 

 They include the water birds of every 

 kind, both swimmers and waders; all 

 the birds of prey, eagles, hawks, owls, 

 and vultures; and all the gallinaceous 

 tribes, comprising pheasants, partridges, 

 turkeys, and chickens. The gobble of 

 the turkey cock, the defiant crow of the 

 "bob-white," are none of them true 

 singing; yet it is quite probable that all 

 of these sounds are uttered with pre- 

 cisely similar motives to those that in- 

 spire the sweet warbling of the song- 

 sparrow, the clear whistle of the robin, 

 or the thrilling music of the wood- 

 thrush . — Philadelphia Tijues. 



